by Alice Ayden
The alien and his ship moved slightly but didn’t provide clues. The trash with the candy bar wrapper evidence had been disposed of. I hoped one of the minions did it. Otherwise, I’d have to endure yet another nutrition lecture. I never understood how Mrs. Kiness wouldn’t be convinced that chocolate provided all the nutrients my body needed.
I rushed to the fireplace to warm my hands. Something about staring into a fire lulled me. Then, I noticed a pile of books on my desk with a note. “What the hell?”
Jane,
I sighed. “It’s Eva. Or Jane Eva. Not just Jane.”
Read these. You do know how to use a computer, don’t you?
“Yes, Karenda. I know how to turn it on and download pics of hot guys.”
You are to be responsible for Ausmor’s website. I expect a daily blog inspired by the writer Jane Austen using her vernacular. I expect all emails to be answered promptly. I expect the Ausmor Plantation brand to be easily recognizable. I expect the professional looking website to be up and running in 48 hours and fully integrated with our social media presence.
- K
“Well, sometimes I look at you, Karenda, and half expect one of your ginormous tits to ask me how I am in the morning, but it ain’t gonna happen.”
I opened one of the books she wanted me to read. After a few unfamiliar words attacked me, I closed it just as fast and glanced at the title. “Why the hell would I need to know about file system whatevers just to do a website? And what is a widget? And why is it called that?” As my head started to throb at the thoughts of twits and circles and followers and fans, I gathered the books together and fell to my knees to look under the bed.
Fanny Dingo perched on her favorite tasseled purple pillow under my bed. My American Shorthair silver tabby cat with a dark fudge ripple swirl and light blue eyes tossed one of her squeaky yawns as she surveyed a couple of gardener’s gloves and three mismatched mittens a few tourists ‘accidentally’ left.
“Want a new collection, Fanny?”
The cat purred.
I tossed the books under the bed and smiled when I heard pages rip. “Karenda, I think now is the best time to realize you don’t get what you want out of life.” I know that better than anyone.
I unlocked the door to my private balcony, leaned against one of the chalky pillars and held onto the intricately carved iron railing. Everything was better from the second floor. I couldn’t hear the tourists in the main house. The staff didn’t bother me. My room looked towards a small forest that bordered Bashwells - Byron’s property.
Down below me in the side garden, Alexander helped the gardeners.
“And it has the best view.” After watching him toss around bags of whatever they were, I knew how he got his muscles. “I bet he can do anything.”
I didn’t know what he was doing, but it didn’t matter. Alexander stopped long enough to toss his cowboy hat under the tree. “Much better.” I can see more of him. I let my mind wander a bit through a fantasy. Just then, he glanced up and waved. I waved back, happy to see his crooked smile. “I’m in trouble, Fanny.”
My laptop beeped. I walked back inside and sat down at my desk to open the new email from...Karenda.
Jane, do not flounder on this. Do what I require, Jane. You cannot continue to burden those around you, Jane.
“That’s good. Use the name every five freaking seconds cause that’ll make me want to use it.”
I will not allow you to live here without contributing. So far, you have failed at everything you’ve ever tried to do.
I flinched and reread it. Yep. She used those words. ‘Failed.’
I would like to believe there is one thing you might be adequate at. Try not to be the burden you have been for the past twenty-one years.
I sat back as I gripped the laptop tighter.
You’re not pretty enough and definitely not smart enough to rely on others forever.
I re-read her words. I used to think Karenda liked me. Sometimes, I pretend I have a sister who genuinely cared if I were bleeding to death in a dirt ditch, but those times usually accompany a mind splitting migraine for some reason. Maybe my brain gets jumbled and memories get outta whack.
Someone cleared her throat behind me, and I jumped up like a spring stabbed my ass.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Kiness spied over my shoulder at Karenda’s email.
I quickly deleted it and closed the lid.
Mrs. Kiness removed the tissue she carefully hid in her sleeve and dabbed gently at the corners of her eyes. “I do not understand her. Where did she acquire so much spite?”
“I think it was a two for one sale. Buy two enormous boobs and get a side order of bitch slapping, knee in the crotch spite.”
Mrs. Kiness suppressed a smile. “The things you say, child.” She rushed to the French doors and closed them. “It is much too chilly to venture out there. I have never seen anyone as young as your sister possess so much anger and bitterness. And yet you are so...”
“A delight?” I cocked my head to one side so my sarcasm could flow better. “A true joy to behold? Someone who makes the world a little better?” I tried to say in my most self-degrading way, but I secretly wanted compliments to make Karenda’s words less stingy.
“You are,” Mrs. Kiness said as she grabbed me in a hug. “You are a joy to all who know you. I have been honored all these years to watch you grow.”
“Like a ficus?”
She held me at arm’s length and ignored my verbal cynic. “And you will accomplish great and amazing things.”
“Okay,” I said, slowly releasing myself from her Vulcan grip. There’s a compliment and then there’s bullshit. “She expects me to learn how to do a website. Why can’t we hire someone to do that?”
Mrs. Kiness shook her head. “You know your sister. She believes it better if one of the family accomplishes the task.”
“What about Evan?” Why didn’t I think of that before? Lillia’s brilliant brother – obviously different from her in every way. He was our tutor ‘back in the day,’ as Lillia would say. “He’s brilliant and...well...everything Lillia isn’t.”
Mrs. Kiness sighed as she caressed the back of her head searching for hair straggles intent on escaping her perfectly coifed bun. “I am sure Mr. Morgan would be honored to help his cousin with her responsibilities.”
Crap. The responsibility lecture again. Worse than the chocolate is evil diatribe. “I know I haven’t been the most hands on, but...”
“Yes, I know, child. You have had...”
I waited to hear how Mrs. Kiness would describe my situation. Migraines. Missing time. Unexplained wounds. Many believed I broke my own leg on purpose or cut my arm intentionally. They thought I wanted attention or was embarrassed about self-inflicting, but I didn’t do it. I swear. I don’t know how I ended up trapped on the third floor in that room no one’s supposed to go into. I don’t know how I ended up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken leg. I don’t know how I got those stab wounds in my arm, but I know I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have.
My stomach churned as it always did when I thought of those things. Fear and doubt grew like a single summer cloud crowded out by pudgy gray rain clouds. I had to believe myself. Even if doubts crept around the edges of everyone else like kudzu invading a forest. I screw up. I put off. I say things I shouldn’t even think. I irritate and harass and doubt. But I couldn’t. I hope I didn’t.
Someone shook me.
I came to and realized I wasn’t at Ausmor anymore. “What the hell?”
“Exactly.” Charlotte said.
I studied Ausmor’s ageless driver who probably started driving Ausmor’s first car. A cigarette dangled from her bright red lips, and she wore her flimsy pink scarf no matter the weather. I realized we stood downtown in front of the stationary store. “How? What? Where? When? Why?”
“What’s the 'ish?” Charlotte asked as she studied me. “Need me to take you back? Having some problem?” Cha
rlotte, somewhere between eighty and three hundred and twenty, surveyed me while twisting her head back and forth. Then she shrugged. “You’re as fine as a June bug mating a death beetle.”
I didn’t know whether that was good or bad.
“Gotta consult something.” Charlotte dove under the hood of Ausmor’s car and fiddled. “Don’t mind me. Gotta dick around awhile.”
“I won’t panic. I won’t panic,” I whispered to myself as that tingling fear crept over the lines. “Stop.” I couldn’t lose it. “It’s no big. I was talking with Mrs. Kiness in my room. I blinked and now I’m downtown. Happens to everyone.” The rising nausea in my stomach boiled over. “Calm down.” I lose it, and my sister would hate me forever and enchant me with lectures about the Austen name, shame and insanity.
A few tourists looked in my direction. I smiled at them and nonchalantly peeked around me. December in Virginia. Cold and crisp. The leaves had already left most of the trees. A few stubborn ones clung to naked branches, but most of the rest had consented to be dropped, strewn across streets, crunched under boots or raked into a pile and dog mauled.
I pinched my left wrist. The pain focused me. Better to confront physical pain than the emotional baggage of mental sewery deadends. Downtown, huge colonials on teeny lots shyly hid behind requisite white picket fences as flowers of purple, red and yellow inched across trellises. Across from the courthouse, the lonely Confederate soldier guarded a small park with two hundred year old oak trees. A smathering of snow much like too little butter on toast dusted the town as smoke wafted from chimneys and jacket zippers could be heard busting to be unleashed over layers of clothes.
A bell rang as the door to the bakery opened. Fresh baked cinnamon bread. “I can have bread, can’t I? Not gluten allergic, am I?” I closed my eyes as the aroma filled my lungs, and I could taste the sugary cinnamon melt against my tongue when a sickening vinegary smell assaulted me. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I knew who belonged to the stench.
He stood there and waited. I wanted to keep my eyes closed to pretend he didn’t exist, but his wheeze gave him away.
“J to my J,” Johnston Stonston spewed like fresh vomit. His rattle bang wheeze sounded like something pneumonia aspired to be. The Stonston clan? Clutch? Cult? Lived next door to Ausmor. They’d slither into Ausmor every other day which most of the family made sure to avoid like a greedy aunt with a questionable cold sore. Unfortunately, Mags Morgan Stonston – Johnston’s mother, was a Morgan. Questionably related to me. I always liked to add the ‘questionably’ part. It helped with digestion.
Johnston, the youngest son, was well into his teens, twenties, thirties or forties. A few more hundred sweat beads formed around Johnston’s receding dirty blond hair and pale, bloated face. Handsome he wasn’t. Interesting he’d never be. Disturbing, disgusting and generally distasteful was Johnston.
I opened my eyes and hoped I’d be back in my room listening to Mrs. Kiness. I wasn’t. “Hello, Johnston.” I spoke to him with the same enthusiasm as speaking to a Hare Krishna, but he never got the hint that I found him as repulsive as a gag rag. Another reason I didn’t want to go by Jane. It would be harder for the maggot to say, ‘E to my J.’
He glanced me up and down and specifically looked back and forth between my breasts as his eyebrows arched.
Charming. Creeped me out. Every vinegar soaked inch of him gave me the willies. Then it hit me. “Oh my god!” I ran to Charlotte still leaning over the car. “Did I black out again?”
She banged her head on the hood. “What?”
“Tell me I didn’t imagine Alexander coming back.”
“Alexander? Why is he back?”
I turned to see Byron standing there. All day people had popped out of nowhere, but I didn’t mind Byron.
Byron Bashley – my schoolgirl crush, first love and dangerous bad boy - waited for his subtle cologne to infuse the space. His cologne always reminded me of a strange mixture of blossoming dogwoods and winter’s snow: masculine, inviting, risky. The Bashleys lived next door at Bashwells plantation on their remaining 250 acres. Compared with the old blood Bashleys, the Austens and Morgans were considered new blood. “There’s my Jane.”
One of the reasons I didn’t mind being called Jane. To hear Byron call me his made it worth listening to Johnston’s little ditty.
Charlotte slammed the hood closed, wiped some goop from her hands and managed to straighten her already perfect short blonde-gray hair when she spotted Byron. I had to smile. Byron had that affect on everyone.
“Charlotte,” Byron grabbed Charlotte’s hand and gently kissed it as she swooned. I shook my head. He knew his effect. “How’s my favorite, enchanting chauffeur?”
Charlotte giggled and couldn’t speak. Byron’s blue eyes netted unsuspecting prey, and I remembered how many times I’d fallen victim. Suddenly, Byron turned his attention to Johnston and stiffened. “Why are you here?” His normally smooth as silk voice chilled as if speaking to a lamp. “Didn’t I warn you to stay away from Miss Austen?”
“Yes... Byro...I mean Mr. Bashl...I mean yes...”
I was glad someone else tugged at Johnston’s strings for a change.
Johnston continued to sputter like a pent up hose, wiped his runny nose against his sleeve and fled.
“What a catch. Guy gives me the hives.”
“Did you say that filthy servant, Alexander, was back?” Much like the most beautiful rose, Byron’s thorns could sting quickly and without warning. He stepped closer to me. “You’re going to stay away from him this time. I won’t warn you again.”
4 Alexander
Wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing which is why I ran into Johnston. Asshole almost knocked me down. He kept looking behind him and was about to apologize when he saw me.
“You.”
“Yes, me. Hello, Johnston.” I looked him over. “Your forehead actually gotten bigger?”
He tightened his jaw. His thin skin stretched too tight, and the shape of his bones became clearer.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Johnston recoiled. “And it’s Mr. Stonston to you.”
I laughed. “Do I really have to call you that if we’re related?”
His beady eyes narrowed, and more sweat beads formed across his engorged forehead. “Just because your grandmother spread her legs for my grandfather—”
I grabbed him. It was instinct, but I couldn’t make a scene. I let go of him.
He smiled at me with a sickening grin as if he knew I couldn’t hurt him in public. “I’m not related to a filthy son of a slutty maid.”
I nodded as I watched him scurry away and trip a few times. Normally, I would never dare to admit being related to the Stonstons, but I knew what buttons to push. “Perdóname, Madre.” If anyone else had dishonored my grandmother or mother, I would have removed their skin from their face, but Johnston didn’t count. None of the Stonstons did. Not after what they did to her.
Then I saw Eva. My skin clammed up, and my heart pounded. What she could do to me. She doesn’t know how smart she is or how everyone worries about her. Karenda forces and bullies, but Eva doesn’t have to. I’d forgotten how she made me feel. At least I tried to forget how seeing her took my breath somewhere else. We’d known each other since we were kids, and I’d hoped to make my feelings clear then. But mom and I had to leave quickly to avoid the situation. What about the rules? I’m the son of a maid and gardener, and she descends from one of the founding families.
Who is she with? She doesn’t look very happy. Byron. Of course. He always brings out the worst. What is he telling her? I know it won’t be the truth. He’d never confess to his crimes. Not to Eva. I have to get to her before he poisons her against me.
5 Jane
Byron grabbed my arms tightly.
“Warn me?” I had to make sure I heard that right. He talked to other people like that but not me.
Byron’s face softened a bit. “Look, it’s for your own good. He’s not what you t
hink he is.”
I squirmed away from his grasp. “It’s Alexander. He’s my friend.”
“You’re not friends with a servant.”
“What is this, 1810? This isn’t Downton Abbey. I can go downstairs without them rising to attention and then complaining about it afterwards. You know Alexander.”
Byron nodded. “He was the son of my maid. I know him. I know everything.”
“What does that mean?”
Byron hesitated. “You look cold. Where’s your coat?”
I realized I was shivering. “Blacking out and coming to somewhere else doesn’t allow for weather contingencies.”
“What?” Byron took off his black, expensive coat, draped it over my shoulders and buttoned me up.
Damn, why did he have to be so drop dead hot cocoa on a winter’s day gorgeous?
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Byron looked deep into my eyes, and I warmed up immediately. “Just make it easier on your sister.”
“Excuse me?” Way to spoil the mood.
“Just do the Jane Austen bit. You love Jane Austen. You used to go by Jane when we were kids.”
“I went by Eva when we were kids.” Why wouldn’t he have remembered that?
He shrugged. “You’ve read everything she’s ever written dozens of times. It’ll be good for Ausmor, and go easier on Karenda. She’s under a lot of stress.”
I took his coat off and threw it at him.
“Don’t kill the messenger. I know they tiptoe around you because of your situation.”
My blood froze. “My situation? Are you talking about this?” I raised my sleeve to reveal the three deep scars running down the length of my arm.
Byron hesitated as he eyed a couple of women walking by who weren’t shy about their thoughts.