Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict

by Laurie Viera Rigler

  Serving coffee to guests in his own home. How many times have I presided over the tea in the drawing room at Mansfield House, making the tea and offering it to our guests, refilling their cups with coffee, and helping them to cake? That was no degradation; it was my duty and honor to show hospitality.

  Could I not do the same here, or imagine that I were doing so, even if I am paid a salary to engage in such feats of fancy? Could it be any worse than that endless interval after dinner with the ladies, feigning interest in endless tales of lace trimmings, spoilt children, and petty gossip? Is there any real shame in earning my bread in such a manner? What could truly be undignified about honest labor?

  Wes is right; serving coffee and tea and muffins to strangers in this coffeehouse—this café—is no less dignified than catering to the whims of that David creature. Far more dignified, I’ll vow.

  “Yes,” I hear myself saying almost before I realize I have decided to say it. “I’ll do it. And I thank you for offering it to me.”

  Wes nearly chokes on his coffee, but he quickly recovers and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Are you all right?”

  “You sure you want to do this? You’re not obligated to take this job. Or any job, for that matter. You’re under no obligation to me. Do you hear me, Courtney? Because that’s the very last thing I’d want. You’re not to sacrifice yourself to some sort of servitude to pay me back.”

  I try to laugh it off, but his serious manner stops me. “It is the right thing to do.”

  “I mean it, Courtney.”

  I smile at him. “As do I. And I am happy to accept your offer.”

  I realize that Sharon is watching us, and it occurs to me that she might, like Mrs. Jennings of Sense and Sensibility, put her own construction on the word “offer.” Which instantly makes me blush. Again.

  There is a bit of an awkward silence in Wes’s car on the way back to my apartment. I keep hearing myself say I am happy to accept your offer and blushing to the roots of my hair like a raw schoolgirl. As for his silence, I cannot imagine why he should feel awkward, unless perhaps he wonders whether he advocated too warmly on behalf of the position.

  “Here’s Sam’s number,” he says, handing me a card when we reach my house. “You should call him tonight and firm things up. He may want you to start as early as tomorrow, if you can swing it. Oh, and before I forget.” He smiles. “Call me if you need directions. I know you never pay attention when you’re not behind the wheel. Good news is, it’s only a five-minute drive.”

  And that is when I realize I am expected to drive my car.

  For a moment I cannot find my tongue.

  “I . . . I prefer to walk.”

  “You. Walk.” Wes stifles a laugh.

  “I don’t see why that’s funny.”

  “You’d take your car down the block if no one were watching you.”

  I smile sweetly at him. “But walking is beneficial exercise, is it not?”

  Wes attempts to keep his countenance. “Indeed, madam.”

  “Well, then. It’s all settled.”

  “How hard did you hit your head, Courtney?” He reaches over and brushes a stray strand of hair from my eyes, and the very tips of his fingers graze my forehead.

  I am so stunned by his touch, by the sweetness of his gaze, that I must catch my breath.

  Is this the gentle affection of a friend, or is there something more in his eyes?

  I laugh to cover my confusion. “You happen to be the second person to ask me that question today.”

  He has parked the car in front of my house but isn’t making any move to open his door; in fact, he hasn’t even turned off the car.

  Should I ask him inside, or would it be too . . . Oh, blast it to—“Would you like to come in?”

  He smiles at me, and it feels as if a warm space has opened inside my heart. “I wish I could. But I’ve got a deadline. Going home to work. Probably an all-nighter.” He sighs heavily.

  Deadline. Whatever that might be, it certainly sounds disagreeable. “Well, then.” I put my hand on the door handle, wishing he would touch my hair again. Or my hand. Or . . .

  “What are you up to tonight?” he says.

  “I think I’ll read and watch my movie.”

  He laughs. “My movie. Of course. Only one movie exists in your world.”

  I almost cannot form words. “You mean there are more?” I realize how stupid that sounds; of course there are more; I saw one with Paula and Anna.

  “Believe it or not. A whole drawerful of them, in your case.”

  A whole drawerful of movies. I start to laugh. What are men to books and movies? Perhaps I shall never leave the house. Except to my place of business, that is.

  Twenty-two

  It is eleven in the morning, and I am at my station behind the counter at Home, which is the name of the café. Sam, the big, burly bear of a man who owns the café, whom I met briefly this morning, put me quite at my ease, and Sharon is now schooling me in the finer points of making coffee, no simple task at this establishment. The coffee machine, she proudly informs me, is one of only a couple of hundred in the country, which sounds to me like a great number of machines until she tells me it represents less than 1 percent of cafés.

  “Of course, it’s a ten-thousand-dollar machine,” she says. “Put it this way: What would you say is the most luxurious ride?”

  “Ride?”

  “You know, wheels.”

  “Let me see . . . a barouche-landau?”

  “Don’t know that one, but to me, cars are like major appliances on wheels. . . . I know, a Maserati. This is the Maserati of coffee machines.”

  She hands me the cup she has just brewed. “But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.”

  My first sip is so exquisite that I can hardly put it into words. Light and delicate and at the same time bracing. A hint of chocolate. And the scent; is it cherries or blackberries or something else?

  Sharon beams her pleasure. “I know. Definitely not your mother’s coffee.”

  I laugh. And as I make my very first espresso, carefully supervised by Sharon, whom I like more and more, I am very well pleased with myself. For there is something positively gratifying about earning my own money with my own two hands. Even if they are my two borrowed hands. And now I know I can afford to pay for the groceries I bought this morning with my credit card. Amazing how I merely handed over the card, and the purchases were mine.

  Clearly, Sharon too takes great pride in her work, this young woman about to embark upon a study of the law. She has no airs about her newly elevated situation, no disgust for her business. It appears that I have landed in a world guided by work and merit, rather than blood or rank. And I must say I like it very well indeed.

  At the end of the day, after Sharon schools me in closing up the café and I bid her good-bye, I carefully reverse the directions that Wes was so kind as to give me. And as I make my way down the bustling streets lighting up in the dusk of summer, I wonder if perhaps I am lacking in sensibility, for I find that I am not pining for my privileged position as a gentleman’s daughter, for the richly furnished rooms and the hovering servants that were as much a part of home as the air I breathed. Of course it would be lovely to awaken and have breakfast prepared for me and not have to think about washing the clothes, but in truth, I lived in a state of the most confining dignity. No one ever asked me what I wished to do above choosing a dish at table or deciding between embroidery and reading for an evening’s amusement. Everything else was set out for me—filial duty, feminine accomplishments, marriage, children—as inflexibly as the blue gown on the bed that I was to wear for dinner, and woe betide me if I dared refuse. And I did refuse. Not the accomplishments and the blue gown, but the marriage and children. Until I almost succumbed. Almost.

  What I do long for are my friends. I long for my father and for Mary and for Barnes. I long for the greenery and freshness of the country; the air here is hot and close and ting
ed with soot, like a London winter. And while the brush-headed trees are wondrous, there is a decided lack of lawns and plants.

  I even think of my mother in wistful moments, but I know I am wishing for the mother I longed for, the mother I fashioned in my mind, rather than for the mother she was. Still, she was my mother, and there is an empty place in my life where she should be.

  I do think of Edgeworth, though those moments are fleeting, and with every passing day the pain dims in memory. Mostly, he visits my thoughts as I drift off to sleep. That is when his face and form appear in my mind’s eye most clearly; that is when it is almost sweet to think of him. It is when I see him as I loved him best, my shining man, my great reader of poetry and plays, my champion of all that was good and clever in my world.

  But last night, as I floated between the sleeping and waking worlds, his countenance became that of Wes, and it comforted me to know that he was here, that I could look upon his face again. I wonder if I am so inconstant that I can go from wanting to be Edgeworth’s wife to finding myself drawn to Wes, a man I have known but a week. And when Frank flits across my mind, it is even more disquieting. Much as I have no wish to see him, I fear to test my resolve in his presence. For I do not trust myself to keep those disturbing memories of him at bay. Which is why I have not returned the two messages from him that were waiting for me last night.

  But I have not leisure to revolve such points in my mind, as I am coming up on a cluster of young men on the pavement, and they are all staring at me in a most disconcerting manner. One of them whispers to the other, and they laugh. All of them are wearing low-slung breeches which are far too big for them, some with billowing white short-sleeved shirts without collars, others bare-chested. By now I have become a bit more accustomed to a seemingly endless variety of outlandish dress. However, what puts me on my guard are their mocking, appraising eyes.

  Now one of them whistles, and the others laugh.

  I cross the street as quickly as I can without breaking into a run, mustering as much dignity as I can and willing myself not to look in their direction.

  “Ow baby,” a voice calls out.

  I nearly trip over some trash in the street.

  Laughter.

  I continue walking, my heart pounding in my chest. Just as I turn the corner, I sneak a look at the clutch of young men; not one of them has followed me.

  It is then that I let out a breath.

  I suppose they are just young men, boys more like, showing off. Still, I cannot help but think that had I been in my own village, in my own time, no farmer’s son or cottager’s boy would have dared do more than tug a forelock or doff a cap in my direction.

  Could my lone presence in the street have been a silent invitation to their impertinence? Perhaps it is unwise for me to be walking alone at dusk in this city. Perhaps I should have heeded Frank’s words. Perhaps there are limitations after all upon a lady’s freedom. Or perhaps it is simply a matter of prudence.

  How could I be so stupid? I quicken my steps, glancing around me in the darkening street for anyone who might be construed as a threat. By the time I put my key in the lock of my apartment door, I am slick with sweat and panting from my exertions. I practically fall through the door, locking it behind me, peeling off garments and turning on the air conditioner—bless you, Wes—as I make my way to the shower and step under a heavenly spray of cold, clean water.

  How lovely to be fresh and cool and safe in my very own apartment. I shall spend the rest of the evening finishing Mansfield Park (never has a story kept me in more suspense) and then starting Northanger Abbey, now that I’ve finished viewing my movie, which was lovely indeed. The visual splendor of it gave me a little taste of home—aside, that is, from the oddity of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s daytime display of bosom (even odder that no one around her seemed to take note of it) and Mr. Darcy’s lack of gloves while dancing. But I suppose I can forgive such lapses of fashion in a film which was created in a world where tiny strips of fabric are considered adequate for sea-bathing and where no one wears gloves at all.

  As if in response to my thoughts about the film, the music from it issues from my phone. It’s Wes! I endeavor to calm myself before answering. How lovely to hear his voice.

  “So, you okay at the café?” he asks. “Not too bad, I hope?”

  “Actually, I’m quite content. It’s lovely.”

  “Really?”

  “Upon my honor.”

  I can hear the relief in his voice. “Then at least I won’t have to worry about you while I’m out of town. I have to take off for a couple of days. Work thing.”

  “Oh.” Somehow the thought of Wes not here, even for a couple of days, leaves me with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

  What a silly creature I am.

  “I don’t have to worry about you, do I?” he says.

  Best not to mention my little adventure walking home tonight.

  “But you can always reach me on my cell,” he says. “Or email.”

  “Of course.” I force some cheer into my voice. “I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.”

  “I don’t know how pleasant it’ll be; I’ll be lucky if I work less than sixteen hours out of twenty-four. But thanks.”

  And then, we say our good-byes, and no sooner do I end the call than there is another, no name, just a number on the phone, and when I answer it, a familiar voice says, “Finally. I thought I was going to have to show up at your door.”

  It’s Frank.

  “I keep thinking about that night at The Fortune Bar,” he says. “When we kissed. And how good you tasted.”

  His words are like a caress, and there is a fluttering in my stomach.

  “You have no idea how much I wanted to kiss you again the other night,” he says. “But then you ran away.”

  My heart is quickening. Why does this man have such an effect on me?

  “Courtney? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I—I’m here.”

  “I miss you.”

  “What is it you want from me, Frank?”

  “You know what I want. And I think you want it, too.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Courtney, I want to be with you.”

  Why does a part of me thrill to hear those words?

  “And?”

  “Let me come over,” he says, “and show you how much I mean it.”

  He is just as he was the other night. All he wants is to get into my bed.

  “What makes you think I hold myself so cheap?”

  “Is it Wes? Is that why you’re holding out on me?”

  And in that moment, it is clear that his pursuit of me has everything to do with his rivalry with Wes and nothing to do with his affections for me.

  And with that clarity, I am free.

  “Because if it is, you should know that Mr. Perfect’s got some business on the side.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Why don’t you ask him? Unless you’re afraid to find out.”

  “I do not suffer such a tone from my own father, let alone from a person who is of no connection to me.”

  “Since when do you talk to your father? And what do you mean by no connection? That’s cold, Courtney.”

  “Good-bye, Frank.”

  “You’re not serious. You were into that kiss.”

  He’s insufferable. “Do not call me again.”

  And I end the call.

  If there is work for me to do in Courtney’s life, then it is clear that banishing Frank from it once and for all is the greatest service I could do her. Nevertheless, it takes some time before I can calm myself enough to lie down and read, let alone shake the unsettling feeling that the meaning of Frank’s cryptic statement about Wes might be something I would rather not know.

  Twenty-three

  “Y ou’re not serious, Courtney,” says Paula’s voice from the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear.

  I am bustling about the apartment the following
morning, getting ready for my second day of work at the café.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, searching through the clothes in my closet for something appropriate to wear, preferably something which might withstand coffee spills.

  “Making coffee? Talk about a dead-end job.”

  Dead end. Must look that one up. But the sound of it doesn’t promise well.

  Paula raves on. I press “speaker,” another ingenious invention, and place the phone on the bed while I fasten my trousers.

  “And this is Wes’s idea,” she huffs. “Figures. His family’s got so much money, he doesn’t have to worry about how much he makes. But how are you going to live on it?”

  Wes? From a wealthy family? And to think I took him for a servant when first we met.

  “Courtney? Are you listening to me?”

  “I’ll manage, Paula. It will hold me over till I find something more suitable.”

  “Come on, Courtney. I cannot imagine you serving coffee without spilling it in someone’s lap.” Paula giggles. “On purpose, that is. You’re just not the servile type.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone less servile than Sharon,” I say, but I can feel myself on the verge of saying something else which I will likely regret.

  “Who’s Sharon?”

  “The young woman who is training me. Forgive me, Paula, but I must get ready.”

  Of all the impertinent . . . oh, blast it all, why should Paula’s opinions be of any consequence to me? And did not Deepa, who called me shortly before Paula did, congratulate me on my new job? She had nothing but kind words and encouragement to offer. Nevertheless, I stamp about the apartment as I put the last of my ensemble together, then remember my promise to Vladimir and will myself to form more ladylike steps.

  It takes a brisk walk in the blessedly cooler air of the morning to cool the heat of my anger. I am not quite ready to try my hand at driving the car again; for now, I shall depend on Sharon’s kindness for a ride home at night and hope that I am as safe in the daytime streets as I believe I am. I keep a watchful eye on my surroundings, but I cannot stop thinking about Paula’s words.