His and Hers

by Dawn Calvert

  "No." Jane walked backward out of the room. "It is not…" She strained the muscles of her mouth hard, shoving the words out, "Best for him. Or best for me."

  Then her shoulders sagged as Mary released her pen, no doubt as worn out by the struggle as Jane.

  James's sister gripped Jane's arms. "You must." Her eyes were wild and filled with fear.

  "I cannot."

  From behind the closed door, she listened to Violet's long, lonely wail. And tears sprang to her eyes. It shouldn't have to be like this.

  Chapter 20

  Jane walked down the long, winding staircase, hand trailing along the carved banister, her mind a world away. It was only when she reached the landing that she realized she hadn't thought once about the possibility of falling headfirst and cracking open her skull. For some people, that would represent the overly dramatic. For Jane, it was entirely realistic.

  Yet it hadn't occurred to her once and it hadn't happened. If she didn't have more important things to concentrate on, she'd spend time mulling that one over. She didn't get a chance. In the next minute, her shoulders and chin rose to the graceful Book Jane level. Mary was writing again.

  She heard a pounding at the door and the footsteps of the servant who scurried to answer it, her shoes tip-tapping on the floor. A booming male voice asked for Mr. James Dempsey.

  As the servant stuttered a reply, Jane came up behind her to say, "Mr. Dempsey cannot be disturbed at this moment, sir."

  "It is a matter of utmost urgency," the man insisted. "He will wish to see me." Without waiting for a response, he tossed his overcoat to the servant. With a full brown beard, round stomach and double chin, he looked something like a bear in Victorian clothing. Jane could imagine him dropping to all four paws with a growl.

  "Surely it can wait until tomorrow when Mr. Dempsey is—" Another commotion, this time behind the man, interrupted her. And then Curran bolted through the door.

  He pulled up short. "Mitchell," he said. "You have no cause to be here."

  The insistent visitor whirled around to face him. "Far more cause than you." His expression turned to a snarl. "I am here to right an injustice."

  "You are nothing but a delusional fool," Curran shot back. "Be gone."

  Instead, the bear man turned to shout up the stairs. "James Dempsey. I must speak with you, sir!"

  Jane's eyes went from the man to Curran and back again in alarm.

  "Can you not see that this is a house of mourning, sir?" Curran asked. "Pray lower your voice." The last was not a request.

  Mitchell appeared caught off guard. "I had heard of the elder Mr. Dempsey's death," he growled. "May he journey well to Heaven."

  Curran took a step toward him. "Leave, now."

  "I have business here." The bear in him reared up to show his claws, only temporarily dissuaded by the Dempsey family's sorrowful situation.

  "If you will not leave of your own volition, I shall be only too glad to help you do so," Curran thundered.

  "Stand aside!" ordered Mitchell.

  So Mary was going for high drama. That much was clear.

  "Stop," moaned a voice from above. Jane looked up to see James at the top of the stairs, head in his hands.

  "Mitchell. Why must you—What is the meaning of this?" A loud hiccup and he tried to straighten, with little success.

  Mitchell took a step forward. "Sir, a travesty has occurred. I must speak with you."

  James shook his head, the picture of drink-addled despair. "Can it not wait until morning?"

  "No." The answer was firm.

  "Very well." James began to descend the stairs, none too well.

  Violet showed up behind him, her face pinched and her movements stilted, as though they caused her pain. She attempted to take his arm.

  "Away with you, Violet. Surely I can—can walk." He motioned her away and then proved he couldn't walk by stumbling on a stair and descending four at once. He put his hands out to catch himself and then pulled himself back up.

  Why would Mary write her hero this way? The illusions she must have had to sacrifice to now portray him diminished as a hero. Inwardly, Jane shook her head. It was a hard thing to accept about someone in real life. Might be just as tough to do it on paper.

  Jane felt her legs move as she rushed forward and up the stairs. "James," she heard herself whisper. "Allow me to help you. Please."

  He gave her an uneven, tousled smile. "As you wish, Jane. But I am perfectly fine—" Another stumble. It was a good thing she hadn't been drinking, too, or they both would have ended up at the bottom of the stairs headfirst. "Are you quite well?" he asked. "I thought you appeared somewhat—" A hiccup. "Fatigued today. It cannot be easy for you."

  So the softer, more solicitous side of James existed, though it could be hidden well at times. "Yes, James," she whispered. "I am well. Do not worry about me."

  When they finally did arrive at the bottom of the stairs, miraculously unscathed, two men stood before them— a glowering Curran and a defiant and still determined Mr. Mitchell.

  "What is it, Mitchell?" James asked, the weariness of too much alcohol heavy in his voice.

  "It is simply this," said the man. He paused dramatically before continuing with, "Curran Dempsey cheated you this night."

  "Preposterous," Curran announced. He turned a furious gaze on James. "Have you put this man up to such an assertion?"

  James stood a little taller, yanking at the edge of his jacket. "I did no such thing. Though it appears to me clear—It appears clearer to me what may have trans… pired here."

  Curran made a disparaging sound and took a step away.

  "I observed it with my own eyes," said Mitchell. "And had the proprietor of the establishment spirit away the cards this man held before he knew they were gone." He aimed an accusing finger at Curran.

  Jane could feel her face registering shock. Inside, she could only think, Curran left his cards on the table? Literally? Didn't sound like something a very smart villain would do.

  Mary, apparently more occupied with the men, allowed her to glance at Curran, whose face was turned away from the others. He looked back at her, anger contorting his face. But in his eyes, she saw something else. Something just for her that she could see him fighting to retain.

  Even though she couldn't be sure what she read in his eyes, she could be sure that something had just passed between the two of them. A sense of understanding, of acceptance.

  He had done his job. And done it well, within the confines of the author's imagination. To the side of her, James was requesting, in a loud, injured voice, to see the cards. Mitchell was only too happy to supply them. Jane took a step toward Curran and next saw him give her the slightest… yes. Wink.

  In that moment, she knew she would never meet another like him. A hero miscast as a villain, with heart and character big enough to put the story, the author and the other characters first. A man with a strong enough sense of self that he didn't have to be right or even understood by everyone.

  He only wanted her to understand.

  If Mary hadn't been holding her upright with grace and poise, Jane might have fallen right over at Curran's feet, begging him to take her. Take her now. On top of all the melt-your-heart qualities he had, those eyes turned her into a woman driven by an army of hard-charging hormones, straight into his bed. Talk about squishy insides. If he so much as touched her, she'd turn into Jell-O. Jell-O melting in the heat of a tropical island. The thought of his arms around her, his skin pressed against hers…

  She was a mess. Of longing. And Mary didn't even seem to notice.

  "I knew it," James proclaimed, his speech clearer. Who needed detox when you had a writer calling the shots? "Knew that you were only able to win under the most underhanded of circumstances." He held up the cards and then threw them at Curran, where they scattered and fell to the floor, landing at odd angles. One caught on Curran's jacket, where it remained lodged. The King of Hearts. Mary probably hadn't noticed. Jane did. "You, sir,
are a cheat. And there is no one more despicable than a man who would cheat his brother."

  Curran turned back to aim a withering stare at both James and Mitchell, but there was, Jane saw, also an amused glint in his eye, as though he silently applauded James for finally standing up in a heroic sort of a way.

  "You will leave Afton House at once," James pronounced. "And never darken this door again." He stepped toward Jane, putting an arm around her. "Jane, who will shortly become my wife, and I shall never welcome you here. Our trust has been betrayed. Once betrayed, it can never be regained."

  Point taken, James, she thought, her eyes on Curran. Stop, already.

  He didn't. "You have been served the utmost of kindness and have chosen to repay it with deception—"

  Curran broke in. "I shall take my leave of this place. You have seen the last of me."

  But James apparently had a parting shot. "I alone am the master of Afton House. As it should be."

  The door slammed behind the love of Jane's life. Her army of hormones fell back, disappointed, while her internal gymnast jumped straight off the trampoline to sprawl on the floor.

  "How very brave of you, James," she heard herself say, laying a hand on his arm. "To think he might have stolen this place from its rightful owner." Of course, if James didn't have his little problem and hadn't been out gambling the place away, then none of it would have happened at all. Curran had managed to come up with a plan much better than the author's, one that seized on James's weakness and used it to a villain's advantage.

  "He will never seek to threaten our happiness again, dear Jane, "James replied. "I have ensured it."

  That he had. By default, anyway. End it, Mary. End it now.

  "And we shall be married, Jane. Without delay." He gripped her shoulders tighter.

  "A wedding!" From behind them, Mrs. Hathaway clapped her hands.

  When had she appeared? It figured the woman would be right here when the wedding came up. Probably adding up her commission at this very minute. Dashing off a letter to her husband to tell him that they could pay the doctor.

  "I am so happy, James, "Jane said to him. If you count feeling emptier than you ever have in your entire life as happy, then, sure… Happy.

  "As am I, my dear." His grip on her tightened.

  She felt her expression turn serious. "But no more wagers, James."

  "Anything for you, Jane."

  She knew he didn't mean it He knew he didn't mean it.

  A pause and her shoulders sagged once again, telling her that Mary had put down her pen. For now.

  James dropped his arm from around her and turned to leave. The director had, for all intents and purposes, yelled, "Cut."

  Jane didn't let him leave. She grabbed his arm. "Is that the end? What will she do now? What is she planning, do you know?" Desperation mixed with sadness to course through her voice, through her body. What had Mary done with Curran ?

  "Calm yourself," James said, but not unkindly. One eyebrow lifted. "She will, of course, move next to writing the funeral. And then the wedding." He dropped his voice so the others would not hear, an unnecessary move since they were already moving out of the room. "Poor Jane. You are feeling nervous, no doubt, about what comes after the wedding? There is no cause for worry."

  Why? Was he planning on leaving her at the altar? Because that was about the only way she wasn't going to have to worry about the wedding night. Mary should be the one worrying. A lot. Jane wouldn't keep James out of trouble after the book finished. She'd only leave him. And that was if she could manage to first be with him.

  Curran had done his part to guarantee a happy ending all around. Now Jane had to do hers. And do it now. Before Mary began writing again.

  She had to make James see the flaws in the story's resolution. Or get Curran to intervene. Talk to Violet. She discarded each option almost as quickly as she thought of it, for different reasons. James would never go for something tougher than what was in front of him. Curran had already intervened and been rewritten for his trouble. And Violet, intent only on ensuring she continued to have a place to live, had little to no influence or impetus to change things.

  She watched as James swaggered from the room, full of his own success as a hero. He was perfectly happy with a sucky ending. Wouldn't be drinking of anything different on his own, that much was for sure.

  She could never, ever marry this man and pretend things were okay. Feelings that strong were bound to cut through the passive character Mary had created and wreak havoc.

  Because Jane would, after all, be Jane.

  The hallway was strangely quiet, with the gaslight casting eerie shadows, when Jane walked up to the portrait of Mary and stood before it. She placed her hands on either side of the frame, gripping it so the carved edges pressed hard against her fingertips, and gently lifted it up and then down so that she could stare directly into Mary's eyes.

  The painting was heavy, and Jane, with her newly un-toned body, could hold it up only for a couple of minutes. Gently, she set it on the floor, against the wall, and brought a chair over so that she could sit before it, again staring into Mary's eyes.

  "Talk to me, Mary," she whispered. "I'm your heroine."

  Nothing. Come on, Mary. "I know this can't be easy for you. I'll help." Jane concentrated, as hard as she could, staring deep into the artist's rendering of the author's intelligent eyes. There was a sensitivity there that Jane realized she must have missed the first time. They possibly had something in common, the two of them. A fear of being discovered for who they really were. And finding it to be lacking.

  She locked her gaze on Mary's unseeing one. And then, she caught a glimpse of something that was there and gone, like a television screen that wavered and faded. She leaned farther forward, until there was only an inch or two between the painting and her nose. The picture came back a few seconds later and this time, stayed.

  A young woman at a plain wooden desk, her skirts covering most of the chair where she sat, with only the toe of a shoe poking out from underneath. Before her, sheets of paper, a small vase of flowers and a pen in an inkwell.

  Mary stared at the paper and then at the pen, for what seemed like several minutes. At last, she put her head in her hands, the picture of despair. As Jane watched, a tear splashed onto the papers. And then another.

  Tears formed in Jane's own eyes as her heart ached for the author. Not being able to get the character of James right had to wrench at Mary's very soul. Wait. Who was Jane kidding? Mary didn't have the heroine right, either. Because of a wish and a stone that had managed to make its way into the author's story, uninvited.

  When Jane's tears began to roll down her face, the picture of Mary abruptly disappeared. Jane lifted a hunk of her skirt to her eyes, dabbing at them. She'd wanted to talk with the author, maybe see the images that James and Curran did. She hadn't expected this.

  If only Mary had picked a different heroine in the first place, someone who would actually fall for James, would love him enough to insist he do what was good for him—

  Hold on. If Mary had picked—That could be it.

  A new heroine. If she worked this just right…Jane wiped the top of her hand furiously across each eye.

  It wouldn't be easy, but maybe, just maybe. It could be done.

  Jane's search for the right candidate began immediately. And of all places, it began at Benton Dempsey's funeral, as mourners began assembling inside the church. With quiet and, she hoped, reverent footsteps, Jane followed others into the long, narrow sanctuary.

  Rows of candles burned on either side, providing sparks of flickering yellow in the otherwise dim light. Centuries of holiness mingled with damp and incense to make her feel very small under the high ceilings. Not the usual spot for matching up eligible people, but she figured no one should mind… too much… if she found James a new wife in here. Given what had happened to her already, God had to have a sense of humor.

  Mary would begin writing at any time. Jane found an em
pty spot near the back and turned slowly on her heel, with a nonchalant air. She didn't know what James's type was, but she could do a pretty good job of guessing.

  Her eyes roamed over the women she could see, dressed in black fabrics that did nothing to flatter anyone including herself. That one had a hard look to her face, that one huddled too close to her mother. That one. There. Hmmm. A possibility?

  The young woman stood by herself, her eyes downcast, but darting from side to side. She looked to be a delicate beauty, with porcelain skin and a long, aristocratic nose that gave her an Uma Thurman sort of presence.

  Wheat-blond hair was piled on her head in the style of the day, but on her it wasn't a bad look. Jane allowed herself a brief moment of envy before zeroing in on her target again.

  An older woman came up to say something to the Uma lookalike, who gave a bob of her chin and a shy half smile in reply.

  Perfect. If she gave a smile like that to James and really meant it, who knew what could happen? Jane began to move toward her, circling in from the side, doing what she could to look casual while scanning for a ring. If the woman would just move her hand a little to the right… No, not that way. To the... There. A clear shot at the finger and… Yes, nothing on it!

  A little less casually now, Jane moved up from behind, gliding to a stop at the woman's side. "Hello," Jane said, keeping her voice pleasant and nonrushed, even though she knew there was no time to lose, that she had to find out very fast if this woman could be the one who could get Jane, and all of them, really, out of this mess—

  "Hello," Uma Woman said, turning to Jane. "You're Miss Ellingson." Her voice was laden with refinement and sweetness.

  "Yes, I am. And you are?"

  "Mildred Watkins," she replied. "You are a guest at Afton House, Miss Ellingson?"

  "Mildred Watkins, "Jane repeated, tapping her chin with her finger. "Mildred." A beauty like this and she got saddled with a name like Mildred. Oh, Mary hadn't noticed her. Hadn't noticed her at all.