Such things would be unthinkable in my world, but this place is unlike my world in every way; that much is clear. And as much as I rejoiced today in having my own set of rooms and the prospect of an independence, I fear that I may not be strong enough to withstand this degree of moral profligacy. My conduct with Frank tonight and those disturbing thoughts—or memories—of doing much worse have shaken my very sense of who I am.
Suddenly, I am startled by a tap on my shoulder; I turn round, and it is Wes. What joy it is to see his gentle countenance alight with a smile, until, that is, I remember that he was witness to my shameful dealings with Frank. And then I cannot look him in the eye.
It is bad enough that Wes saw me kissing Frank—but does he truly know the extent of my sins?
He puts his mouth close to my ear. “I was hoping I might find you here. Are you okay?”
I nod, still unable to look at him.
“I know it’s none of my business. But you’re not really going to give Frank another chance, are you?”
I can feel the blush rising up my neck. “I have no excuse for my conduct.”
“So you’re not going to . . . ?”
“I am most ashamed.”
The fortune-teller did say it was up to me to determine whether or not it was in my—or Courtney’s—best interests to keep Frank from my life. And Wes as well. That part of the story, said she, is for you to determine. But I know that any man whose very presence incites me to nearly throw away my reputation—or whatever shreds of it remain—is someone I must avoid at any cost.
As for Wes, there is indeed so much goodness in his countenance that I feel safe with him. Despite what Anna and Paula say he has done. And yet . . . if I can see the wisdom in Paula’s and Anna’s warnings about Frank; and indeed, Frank himself admitted he did wrong—should I not give their warnings about Wes due consideration as well?
“You have nothing to feel bad about, Courtney. He saw an opening, and he took it.”
And I allowed him to do so. But I do not speak those words aloud.
“You are very good,” I say.
I allow myself to meet Wes’s eyes for a moment, and his eyes betray nothing but kindness. The kindness that a compassionate man would bestow on a ruined woman. Unless—and I can only hope it is so—he does not know to what extent Courtney has compromised herself with Frank; if only I could drive those images of lying with Frank from my brain, but I cannot. They are so real, so vivid, that my ability to think of those images as Courtney’s life and not my own is dwindling by the second.
Again I cannot meet Wes’s gaze. I cast my eyes again to the bar, and there is Deepa. I wave until she sees me and smiles, a dazzling smile even from here.
And then I see another lady, a young, black-haired woman standing several feet from the bar and gazing up at me. Or Wes. I cannot tell. But there is something about her pale, heart-shaped countenance with its uptilted eyes that is oddly familiar, though of course I have never met her before.
And then Deepa appears in the gallery, and I see that Wes, too, is gazing below at the lady, who is still looking up in our direction.
“Had enough festivities for one night?” asks Deepa with a smile, and I nod, smiling, too. Wes breaks his gaze at the lady below and turns his attention to us. “Great, then let’s roll,” says Deepa. “Take care, Wes.”
“Bye, Deepa.”
She nods to me, slings her bag on her shoulder, and turns towards the stairs.
“Good-bye,” I say to Wes, and he reaches out to clasp my hand.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Courtney.” He squeezes my hand.
I am almost overcome by his kindness, and I can only nod at him, then hurry down the stairs towards Deepa’s retreating form. As for the strangely familiar lady who had been staring up at us, she is no longer there.
The ride home with Deepa is largely silent, save for the music in her car. She pats me on the arm a couple of times and glances over at me with a reassuring smile, but she asks nothing about my meeting with the lady, and I say nothing, though I dearly wish to do so.
When she stops her car before my house, I venture, “Shall I tell you about the lady I met when you left me?”
“You do realize,” she says, looking into my eyes and dropping her voice to a whisper, though we are the only two creatures in the car, “that what happened tonight is not something you should discuss with 99.9 percent of the population? The same goes for saying that a certain person is from another life. Some things aren’t for everyone, you know? Don’t ask, don’t tell.” She attempts a light-hearted smile, but I can see she is quite serious.
I regard her with awe. “I suppose I am too apt at times to wonder whether something is merely the fancy of my imagination—even when I know it is not—but clearly you have had your own dealings with the lady.” I pause, wishing for information but not wanting to seem impertinent.
“No offense,” says Deepa, “but that’s not something I discuss. I almost didn’t even send you down that hallway tonight. The one time I did say too much—and to the wrong person, I might add—I didn’t see any trace of the lady, as you call her, in the club for six months. Besides, if I talked about her, I’d reduce her to a mere story that no one would ever understand anyway. And then she’d never come back, and it would be as if she never existed.”
I say nothing, but I believe I do understand. What would Mary say, after all, if I returned to my own country, to my own time, and tried to tell her what happened to me here? She would never believe me, and I would hardly believe it myself.
“So,” says Deepa, “what did you think of Awakening?” She smiles slyly. “Aside from what we don’t talk about?”
“Awakening?”
“Duh. The club.”
“Awakening.” The irony of that name is not lost upon me. “It was—exciting. Different. Have you been employed there long?”
“Actually, I own a controlling interest in the club. Have done since my divorce became final two months ago. When you and I first met.”
I think of the mix of gentlemen and ladies I saw at the club. “May I ask the criteria for membership?”
Deepa laughs. “You are too funny, Courtney.”
I laugh along with her, though I have no idea why, and I take my leave, thanking her most sincerely for her kindness.
“Let’s do it again soon,” she says, and I wave my good-byes with a warm feeling in my heart. I believe I have made a true friend tonight.
As I run up the stairs, I am struck by Deepa’s having received a controlling interest in the club as a result of her divorce. That Paula’s words at breakfast indicated a lady might divorce a man for his adulterous behavior was astonishing enough. That a lady might even gain financially from the business is beyond anything. Certainly my mother’s cousin, whom I heard her comforting all those years ago, had no such options. She, like all ladies similarly situated, could only live out her life in misery and dependence while her husband made a fool of himself.
Would my mother have divorced my father if she could? I cannot imagine such a thing. She would never want the world to know she was unloved, if indeed that is the truth. No, even if I can believe my father carrying around in his heart the lost love of his youth—and attempting to picture my spindly, thatch-haired, care-worn father as a youth, let alone a love-struck one, is a feat of imagination indeed—I cannot believe my mother ever loved my father. That fortune-teller may be able to prognosticate a fall from a horse, but I’ll wager she is as much a storyteller as she claims I am.
And yet . . . she is indeed the same fortune-teller with whom I met in my own time, and in my own country. And I cannot deny that she knew then, as she knows now, more about my life than I have ever disclosed to another soul. And thus I cannot so easily dismiss anything she says.
I unlock the door and welcome the solitude of my rooms, the quiet of which emphasizes the ringing in my ears. I fill a glass of water and sink into the soft cushions of the sofa to reflect upon the strange
happenings of this night.
There is much work to be done here, said the lady. There is nothing nobler than to give up one’s self in service to another. Look at the state of this life you have inherited.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’ve barely touched food since breakfast with Paula and Anna. I cannot very well do my work on an empty stomach, let alone examine the state of this life I have inherited.
And so I retrieve the papery jar of Cherry Garcia ice cream from the fridge, as Wes called it, and settle back into the sofa.
Which is all I can manage right now. My mind has had its fill of noble missions and two-hundred-year time shifts for one night.
Although . . . I retrieve the pile of novels by Jane Austen from the table beside the bed. Emma is what I need right now. There will be time enough tomorrow to deal with what the fortune-teller said.
I open the thick volume, eager to delve into a wholly new story.
Thirteen
Someone is pounding on the door, and I bolt from the sofa with a start. I have slept in my clothes, Emma nearly finished, the empty jar of ice cream on the low table. I am loathe to receive company in such a disheveled state but dare not ignore such insistent pounding, as if one could.
“Who’s that?” I croak, ear to the door.
“It’s Sandra, sweetie. Open up.”
Sandra? Ah, yes, Anna and Paula did mention someone named Sandra at breakfast yesterday. A connection of David, my supposed employer. I open the door, and there stands the sweetest-looking creature, ephemeral and slight, like a fairy princess with long, silky dark-blond hair, enormous blue eyes in a delicate countenance, and the loveliest smile. She looks to be no more than one and twenty.
“How are you, sweetie? We’ve all been worried. David of course has been beside himself, but you know how he gets.” She rolls her eyes. “You’d think the man could live without you over the weekend. If I were you, I’d use his newfound realization of your indispensable qualities to get yourself a raise. As if you could ever be paid enough for what you do.”
Her voice is surprisingly deep, like Mary’s but smooth rather than rasping. The similarity is enough to make my heart ache for my beloved friend.
Sandra’s large blue eyes search my face. “You do look a bit out of it; are you okay?”
I smile. “Perfectly.”
“No pain?”
“Nothing I regard.”
She opens her mouth as if to say something and then lifts her eyebrows as if thinking better of it. “How ’bout I run you a shower and start some coffee.” I follow her into the bathroom, attending her closely as she pulls aside a curtain to reveal a recessed bathtub, turns on a cascade of water, and then closes the curtain again.
“Hop in,” she says. “You deserve to be waited on for once. I’ll even pick out your clothes and drive you to the office. If you don’t mind, that is. Of course if you prefer to drive your own car . . .”
My own car. I drive my own car. The very thought is thrilling, but I would not know the first thing. Sandra must be David’s servant, and he has sent her here to escort me to my place of employment. I, with a place of employment. A profession of my own.
But Paula had said I was not to go to work today. Oh how I wish she or Anna or Deepa were here to advise me as to how I shall get through this situation.
Well, I must soldier on. And I must own I am brimming with curiosity about my place of employment.
I smile at Sandra. “I would prefer to be driven. I am most obliged.” She looks at me somewhat quizzically and then dashes out of the room. I disrobe, then test the water with one foot; it is the perfect temperature. I step in behind the curtain and am immediately soaked by the steamy waterfall. Heavenly.
An array of tall containers on openwork white shelves catches my eye. Two sorts of something called shampoo. Conditioner, whatever that might be. Body wash. All quite exotic-sounding. Ah, something familiar at last: two cakes of sweet-smelling soap. I could use the soap to wash my hair, but I am curious about the bottles, which are of a pliable opaque substance and covered with print praising the “miraculous” and “revolutionary” properties of the various concoctions. There is so much to read that I could become a boiled-red wrinkled thing before I accomplish anything.
Fortunately, I forestall such a fate with the very next bottle, whose set of directions as to the washing of hair are so minute that I laugh as I massage the fragrant stuff into my scalp. Would someone actually apply the mixture onto wet hair and fail to wash it out were he not otherwise instructed?
I do not remember the last time I felt so clean; it is nothing like a long soak in a tub with water that soon becomes as dirty as the body within it, and thus there is nothing to do but stew in one’s filth and remove it as best one can with a towel.
I turn the knobs I saw Sandra operate, in an attempt to shut off the flow of water, the result being a momentary scalding and an involuntary shriek from myself before I manage to achieve my ends.
A quick knock and Sandra peeks in through the steam. “You all right?”
I grab for a towel to cover myself. “Indeed. It was merely a bit of hot water.”
Another eye roll from Sandra. “First a raise. Then a place where things actually work. But first we need to get you to work before David has a stroke. He’s called three times while you were in the shower. I told him if he called again, you’d be even later, so I think that might save you from him till you get there.”
“Thank you.”
True to her word, Sandra has laid out an ensemble for me on the bed. Shiny black trousers, along with a tiny black bodice without sleeves. The scantiness of the bodice is bad enough, but—
Sandra lays a hand on my arm. “Something wrong, sweetie?”
“Am I in mourning?”
Sandra looks at me, openmouthed, and then laughs. “I should hope not. But when has that ever stopped you from wearing black?”
Sandra pulls from the closet a white flowing dress dotted with blue flowers, not full-length, of course, but one that might hang to the knee or a bit above. It is sleeveless as well.
“How’s this?” she asks.
I cannot show my legs; I can hardly imagine showing my arms.
“Perhaps I might pair the black trousers with something a bit colorful? And with sleeves? Half-mourning is preferable to full.” I smile in what I hope is a conciliatory manner, but she looks as puzzled as before.
“Right.” She pulls out a claret-red, long-sleeved bodice with a fold-down collar and buttons. “At least you won’t freeze in the air-conditioning. Or have to worry about shaving legs.” She glances at a watch, a very feminine item that is more a piece of jewelry than a watch, and such a clever idea to have one fastened about the wrist. “Which would make you even later.”
“Of course,” I say, opening the door for her so that I might dress in private and wondering what she means by “air-conditioning” and “shaving legs.” I can now navigate my way around the undergarments and trouser fastenings on my own, but the lexicon of this society is still a mystery.
When I emerge from the bathroom, I look well, having finally succeeded in applying mascara without poking my eye or looking as if I smeared my face with ashes. Sandra awaits me with a ring of keys in hand, her bag slung over her arm.
“By the way,” she says, pressing something on a boxlike object in the window, which silences the loud rushing noise I have been hearing since I emerged from the shower, “your landlord really should do something about this poor excuse for an air conditioner. I was going to offer to blow-dry your hair for you,” she says, indicating an oddly shaped brown object lying on the table, “but no way in this heat.”
It is indeed hot in the room. A trickle of perspiration runs down my back; I hope it does not show. I also hope that the powder-fresh antiperspirant/deodorant which I discovered in the cabinet, and which I applied to my underarms as the label instructed, does its office.
No matter, for within mere minutes we have made it pa
st the wall of heat awaiting us outside and into the plush seats of Sandra’s iridescent dark-gray, instantly air-cooled car, which drives away with barely a sound. This, I realize, must be what she meant by air-conditioning.
In fact, it occurs to me that Paula’s car and Deepa’s, too, must have been cooled in a similar manner; both were, I believe, far cooler than the air outside, though I did not mark it at the time. Perhaps, as the fortune-teller said, I really am asleep to certain things. What else, I wonder, am I not noticing, especially when there is so much to capture my attention in this strange world that I can hardly attend to Sandra’s polite inquiries as to my comfort and the state of my head, and her gentle admonishments that I not allow David to pile too much on me all at once. Instead, I am almost wholly engaged in gaping out the front and side glasses at the rush of exotic brush-headed trees, speeding cars, and oddly shaped buildings rich in glass and gleaming masonry. Though I cannot dispel the disconcerting sensations generated by Sandra’s references to inadequate salary and disobliging landlords and the inferior state of my apartment. I cannot help but conclude that the woman I am supposed to be, Courtney Stone, lives in such a penurious manner that a servant sees fit to advise her on it. Such a reduction in circumstances—for clearly the absence of a servant of my own is indication enough—is mortifying indeed for a gentleman’s daughter.
Yet—can a woman who earns her own bread and is driven to her place of employment, who is attended by a pretty and engaging servant in a car which is clearly superior to that driven by Paula or Deepa, truly be considered poor? Can a woman who has such an abundance of garments, who keeps her own carriage, who commands the use of rooms, not merely a room, of her own be anything but rich? Perhaps not rich in landed, freehold property, such as befits the owner of Mansfield House, nor rich in the manner of Edgeworth, who has two estates and a house in town—but rich as an unmarried woman might be rich. Rich in independence and voluntary solitude and self-will. Rich in determination to discover what riches await me in this wondrous and mysterious adventure called work.
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 11