by Dawn Calvert
"We shall do nothing."
"Nothing?" She lifted her brows.
"Nothing?" echoed Anne, finding her voice.
"But you—"Jane fumbled with what to say. "Have been blamed for it. We have to do something to make sure people know it wasn't you."
In one fluid motion, he pulled himself up onto the horse and into the saddle, taking the reins. He directed his next words to the bent head of Anne. "Let us leave the explanation to what is often referred to as my careless nature. I am certain you meant no real harm." He lowered his voice, just enough to soften any sting. "What I see on your face tells me that such an event will not occur again, with Lord Thunder or any of the other horses." He gave his own a pat.
Anne's head rose. She gave a barely perceptible nod, bottom lip quivering. Then she allowed herself a hint of a smile.
Jane's heart swelled.
"There you have it, then," said Curran. He next directed a look at the stable boy, who quickly bent his own head, picking up the bucket he had set on the ground.
Curran's gaze moved back to Jane, prompting heart palpitations that had her pressing her hand to her chest. He'd taken the heat for Anne. A teenage prank gone wrong and he'd allowed himself to be the target of blame. And he'd managed to do it without embarrassing the girl.
What a hero. Oh. Wait. Damn.
"I have business to attend to," Curran said, "but I must talk with you, Miss Jane Ellingson, when I return."
"Of course," she said hastily. Anytime, any place. Talk. Not talk. Anything he wanted to do. "I'll be here."
With that, Curran rode, quite literally, into the sunset.
When he had gone, Anne looked over at Matthew and he looked at her. They each took a step toward each other.
"Oh, no you don't," Jane said, tugging at her sister's arm. "We have more talking to do. Important sister stuff."
With a small, furtive wave at the stable boy, Anne went with Jane, who had started down the path that led to the house. "Perhaps you are right," the girl said in a small, quiet voice, "About Mr. Dempsey as a villain."
"He doesn't make a very good one," Jane said absently, thinking of the way Curran had quickly sized up the situation, weighed the alternatives and decided to accept the blame for something he hadn't done. "Although I think he tries." He was accustomed, he had as much as said, to people assuming the worst about him. What would it be like to live like that? Even with Jane's record, people more often than not gave her the benefit of the doubt.
"He did not even scold me, which I fully deserved." Anne's voice turned to wonder. "And I think—Could he have known Matthew had a hand in this?"
"That's the funny thing about Curran. He knows a lot more than he lets on."
"Our author does not seem to understand that Mr. Dempsey is other than she would portray him."
"I think Mary and James are the only ones who don't recognize that."
"And the elder Mr. Dempsey?"
Jane thought about that for a few steps. "He's pretty firmly fixed on the way things are, that Curran can never inherit, even though he's the oldest son. But I get the distinct feeling that he loves Curran. Might even favor him a little."
"Mr. James Dempsey would not like that."
"You're telling me." Jane screwed up her mouth. "So I suppose Mary isn't going to let anything happen differently." She focused her attention back on Anne. "You didn't exactly give me the whole story with Matthew."
Pink stained the younger girl's cheeks. "I do not understand."
"The way he looked at you, I'd say Matthew might have a crush."
"A… crush?"
"Feelings for you. Romantic kinds of feelings."
A brief excitement played out on Anne's features before she was able to regain control. "Do not speak of such things. It is quite impossible, as you know."
Yet when hormones and emotions took over, Anne could find herself in trouble. Never mind that she wasn't the only one who could find herself in trouble with an impossible man. "I know," Jane said slowly. "Sometimes the impossible relationships are the ones you want the most."
They walked in silence until Anne volunteered, "He wanted to carry the blame for Lord Thunder himself, to protect me from the wrath of Mr. Dempsey."
"Mmm."Jane nodded. "Protective. Don't you hate it when they do things like that?"
"Hate it?" Anne sounded baffled.
"What I mean is, you don't hate it. Which makes it even harder to say no—" She broke off when she realized this conversation was not going as planned. Good thing she'd never become a teacher, tasked with imparting sex education. There would be a population explosion. "Just… be careful, Anne. I guess that's all I wanted to say."
"I shall," the girl promised solemnly. "And Jane?"
"Yes?"
"You won't tell anyone that… ?" A helpless gesture followed. Anne couldn't bring herself to say the words.
"I won't." Jane assured her. "Your secrets are safe with me, Little Sister."
Anne's answer was to fold her in a quick, heartfelt hug.
When Mary next began writing, Jane found herself in the drawing room, seated at a table around a game of cards with Mrs. Hathaway, Violet and Curran. Across the room, James stood before the fireplace.
"Won't you play, Mr. Dempsey?" trilled Mrs. Hathaway. "This table is, I daresay, far too female. We need a gentleman's quick mind."
Oh, now. There was way too much that could be said in this situation, none of it properly Victorian at all. But Mary kept firm control of Jane's mouth. She looked over her hand of cards and gave Violet, her partner in the game, the slightest raised eyebrow. The other woman, her face its usual blank mask, acknowledged the signal with the tiniest of nods.
The roller-coaster drama of a game of cards. How did they sleep at night?
"James does not care for such pursuits," she heard herself say to Mrs. Hathaway.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Curran's jaw muscles working furiously. He appeared to be holding himself back from saying something. Or wait. Was he actually trying to say something? Though her hand reached for a card, her attention was riveted on the man to her right.
At last he remarked, "On the contrary, my brother cares for… such pursuits far too much."
Yaaay, Curran. Jane wasn't the only one giving Mary trouble. She felt like breaking into applause, an impulse that stilled when she saw the round O of Mrs. Hathaway's mouth, the look of shock on Violet's face and, worse, the tight-lipped fury on James's face. That couldn't be good.
"Have you something to say, sir?" James demanded.
Curran closed his eyes and then opened them, appearing to concentrate hard. "Only that I have been told your debts are mounting fast at a certain establishment." He bit hard on his bottom lip before managing to force out, "Take care, Brother, that you do not gamble away an inheritance not yet yours."
"Preposterous," shot back James. "I shall do no such thing. I do not—How could you even suggest—"
"It is no suggestion. I myself have witnessed your activity on many a late night. Perhaps if your skill were greater than the hand you were dealt…"
Behind Jane, the fire crackled. Mrs. Hathaway gave a nervous, apologetic cough. Violet's face looked carved of stone.
"My skill. Shall I suppose that you, of all people, are offering to teach me?" James's tone dripped with sarcasm.
Not the greatest comeback in the world.
A pause, then a flash of light and Jane was standing before the fireplace with James while Violet, Mrs. Hathaway and Curran played cards at the table. Across the room, Anne sat in a chair, fidgeting with embroidery.
Okay. So Mary didn't much care for that last little bit. James's love of cards must be a sore subject Good to know.
"I have written to your father, Jane," James was saying in a low voice. "And I am pleased to say he has responded, giving his blessing to a marriage between us."
A marriage between them. How desperately romantic. And wait a minute. Had she missed something or had James neve
r even asked her? A technical detail, but one she was more than willing to debate.
Excited words of pleasure balanced on the tip of her tongue, ready to launch. She could feel them, could nearly wrap her mouth around and smother them. But then, as fast as she was ready to fight saying them, they were gone, melting away into the oblivion that was unspoken words, thoughts, feelings.
With surprise, Jane felt Mary's grip on her lighten. The author still had pen in hand because Jane's shoulders were erect and her chin up, but her mouth felt oddly relaxed. As though the author was waiting, as much as Jane, to see what would emerge.
She looked at James, an expectant and pleased smile on his face. And then at Curran, who had risen from his chair and stood, waiting. Back at James, whose smile was beginning to show a bit of strain and at Curran, who might possibly be working up to a smile.
James. She felt nothing. Curran. She felt… But she couldn't. Could she? Was it possible Mary would allow her to be with a man who made every one of her senses stand up and pay attention? When she was within a room's length of the man, she could barely think. He drove her crazy at the same time he drove her to him.
It was not because he was unattainable. It was because she had to have him. Big difference. Huge.
Of course. The author was just now waking up to the fact that her characters, once created, had to be able to take over and live. Finally. Jane was beginning to feel a kinship with Mary Bellingham, a bond that could happen only between author and character. That trust that comes from knowing Jane would act in a heroine-like best interest of the story. And she could do that. She could. Just as soon as she figured out what that might be. Thank you, Mary.
She looked back at James again. And then her gaze shot to Curran, with a dizzying sense of exhilaration that she really, truly might have a chance at real happiness, with someone who made her toes curl and didn't cringe at her accidents, which, by the way, she didn't seem to have when she was with him.
That made her pause. The accidents, the bane of her existence for as long as she could remember, didn't happen when he was around. Odd. But even if they did, he, as opposed to nearly every other person in her life, wouldn't be put off by it For whatever reason she couldn't explain, she was sure of it.
Could it be? Really? He liked her the way she was. Accidents and all.
Mary. We have a winner!
Curran's eyes locked on hers. For one spectacular moment, all else faded away, the drawing room, the people, the card game, everything.
And then the pause that meant Mary was lifting her pen. No, Jane wanted to cry. Let this play out. Let's keep going.
They waited, until James raised his finger with great dramatic flair. "She is…" Then a look of disbelief, swiftly followed by a growing horror, spread across his face. "Take heed!" he shouted.
"What is it? What's happening?" asked Jane.
Anne dropped her embroidery to scurry to her side. "I'm frightened," the girl whispered.
Jane put an arm around her and pulled her close.
The drawing room grew warmer. And warmer still. Jane could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead, all over her body, as the room became increasingly hot. James held on to a chair while tugging at his jacket. Violet's blank expression turned to confusion. Mrs. Hathaway fanned herself with her hand until she collapsed against the chair and Anne, nestled in next to Jane, began to whimper.
Curran took a step toward them just as Jane spotted something orange in the corner of the room. "Look!" she yelped, pointing.
A flame, climbing upward, licking at the walls. Then joined by another.
She clung to Anne harder, as though she could somehow protect the younger girl with her body. Fear pulsed through her veins until she thought her heart would pound nearly out of her chest. Think. Remember. What to do in case of fire. "We have to get to the door," she said to Anne, hoping her legs would carry the two of them there. Damn these skirts. She wanted to rip them off to leave her free to move. "Curran!" He was moving toward the flames, instead of away from them. Then she saw why. James was staggering to the corner, a pillow in his hand, his cheeks red and glistening with sweat.
This couldn't be. The beautiful estate. On fire. Mrs. Hathaway began to scream in a high-pitched wail and Violet sat silent in her chair, stunned. Anne had buried her face in the bodice of Jane's dress.
"Get everyone out!" Curran shouted back at them as he and his brother both picked up pillows and began beating at the flames, which were only growing in intensity.
"Violet!" With her free hand, Jane began shaking the other woman's arm. "Come on. Get up. We have to get out of here. Now."
To Mrs. Hathaway, she barked, "Quiet!"
Startled, the woman clapped her mouth shut. "I'm frightened," she mouthed.
"Follow me. And you, Violet. Come!"
Both did as they were told and the four women crossed the room swiftly to the door. But as they reached it, Jane saw something that caused her heart to sink to her toes in despair. Flames. Licking at that wall as well.
"We shall be killed!" wailed Mrs. Hathaway, swaying and collapsing against a chair.
"No we won't!" answered Jane. She had not lived twenty six years of her life only to die in a fire in a make-believe reality. "Get down on the floor," she ordered Anne. "Put your face to it. You!" she said to Violet. "Water! We need water. And cloth." Jane began ripping and tearing at her skirts.
She had just succeeded in tearing off a huge chunk when, unexpectedly, the flames began to subside. Smoke filtered in, its pungent odor filling the air. Jane tore the fabric into strips and began dunking it into a water pitcher she found on a back table. Water spilled all over the wooden surface. "Here," she said to Anne. "Cover your face with this." Next she gave one to Violet and one to Mrs. Hathaway. Then she saw James and Curran, both red-faced, with singed pillows in their hands. "The fire went out," she said unnecessarily. She handed them each a wet cloth. "For your face. Use it to breathe through." She pressed one to her own face, drinking in the relief from the smoke that it provided. "We have to get out of here."
"To the garden, "James ordered. "The smoke is throughout the house."
"What happened?" Jane asked, but no one answered until they were all through the door and the halls and had spilled out the front entrance into the welcoming cool air.
When they reached the gardens, Jane fell onto the grass, barely registering that her dress was above her knees in the front. Her legs welcomed the freedom. Again she pleaded, "What happened?"
James looked first at her legs and then slowly up into her eyes.
Now he gets interested, she thought.
"We were fortunate indeed," he said.
Curran nodded in terse agreement.
"What do you mean?" Jane asked.
"Our author threw the pages of her manuscript into the fire."
Shocked sounds of disbelief from the women, including Jane, who shook her head. "No. She couldn't have done that." How could it have been possible? Right before the flames hit, Mary and Jane had connected, the author showing herself willing to listen to her character, to maybe even allow her to consider another man as hero. She had. Jane had felt it, she had even—
Omigod. Jane had pushed too far. She had frustrated Mary Bellingham until the author had felt she had no choice but to throw the entire manuscript into the fire. Jane had very nearly been responsible for the death of how many people? Single-handedly.
"But… We're still here," she said, her voice scratchy and faint.
"Only because she risked grave injury to herself by pulling the pages out of the fire." Curran looked grim. "She is not likely to do so again."
Chapter 17
Mary was not likely to pull the pages out of the fire again. Jane let the words of warning sink deep inside her, where they sat, weighing on her heart.
She could pretend all she wanted that this story had something to do with her, but the truth was that the story was Mary's, written from her perspective and experiences. And they
had to help her make it work or be doomed forever to a life that wasn't one.
As she looked at Curran, a sense of sadness washed over her, so strong that her shoulders sagged and her chin dropped to stare at the grass. Anne slipped an arm around Jane's waist.
"It is of little surprise," contributed Mrs. Hathaway with a self-righteous sniff.
Jane's chin rose abruptly.
Violet turned away. James began to pace, his hands locked behind his back. And Curran, his expression fierce, stared into the distance.
"Perhaps Miss Bellingham was not meant to be an author," Anne said. As all eyes turned in her direction, her cheeks colored. "She struggles most terribly."
Sympathy tugged at Jane. Mary's brother was the successful author. The one his younger sister would always be measured against. And try as hard as she could, she would likely never measure up in the eyes of others.
A dilemma Jane might know a little something about.
She pushed herself up off the ground and stood. With as much dignity as she could muster in half a skirt, she began to walk. Away from the others. To be alone with her thoughts, which hurtled through her, stopping and starting, careening around corners at a speed that made her light-headed. The smell of smoke, faded but still there, stung her nostrils. A reminder of the consequences for forgetting who held the pen.
The grass crunched beneath her feet, the landscape stretching out ahead with no sign of other civilization. A far different life than she'd ever encountered. One of Mary's creation. Jane had made a wish and plunked herself right in the middle of a work in progress. What right did she have to try and drive Mary's story? It wasn't as though Jane had a great track record for handling romance, or any other aspect of her life, on her own.
It couldn't have been an accident that she'd found that wishing stone in Starbucks. Hundreds, if not thousands of people must have been close enough to see it. It had waited for her. Chosen her. She'd had the greatest need for a new path, for someone to take charge. And that stone had known exactly what wish she would make. She'd bet anything on it.