Jane Bites Back

“I trust Miss Fleck has been taken care of?” Sherman said.

Jane nodded. “Yes, but I’m afraid she’s decided to abandon our company for more agreeable friends,” she said.

“Pity,” Sherman replied. Jane noticed that in her absence he had gotten himself a new drink. She also noticed that Walter was missing.

“Walter was called away by his duties as host,” Sherman said, as if reading her mind. “I’m so glad you’re back. It’s been dreadfully dull.”

“Well then, let’s make up for lost time,” Jane said. “Tell me everything you know about everyone here.”

In short order Jane learned that both Mr. and Mrs. Primsley were having an affair with the high school debate coach; that Miranda Fleck’s dissertation was late not because of her need to research more primary sources but because her original work had been found to be not at all original; and that a surprising number of the party guests had at one time or another been arrested for shoplifting, driving under the influence, indecent exposure, or a combination of all three.

“Next you’ll tell me that Walter has a sordid past,” Jane remarked.

Sherman waved one hand and laughed. “Walter has no past,” he said. “I don’t think he’s had even one date since his wife died.”

“His wife?” Jane coughed, choking on her wine. “I didn’t know he’d been married.”

Sherman nodded. “Evelyn,” he said. “She died, oh, it must be almost fifteen years ago now. It was quite a tragedy. They’d been married only a few years.”

“How did she—What happened to her?” asked Jane.

Sherman sighed deeply. “She drowned,” he said. “On the Fourth of July. There was a picnic at the lake. She went swimming. No one knows exactly what happened. One minute she was waving to us, and the next we couldn’t see her. By the time anyone realized something was wrong she was dead.”

“How terrible,” said Jane. “Poor Walter.”

“He was devastated,” Sherman told her. “We worried about him for a long time.”

“He’s never mentioned it to me,” Jane said.

“I’m not surprised,” said Sherman. “He never speaks of her. I don’t think there are even any pictures of her in the house. It’s as if she never existed.”

Jane searched the room for Walter and found him talking to the head of the Historical Society. He was smiling and laughing and waving his hands emphatically. You would never know he’d suffered such a tragedy, she thought. Her heart ached for him. She suddenly wanted to go to him and tell him that everything would be all right.

“Ten!” someone shouted, causing Jane to jump.

“Nine!”

Jane glanced at her watch. It was almost midnight.

“Eight!”

“Seven!”

All around her people stood up and began counting down the New Year. They donned hats and held up noisemakers in anticipation.

“Six!”

“Five!”

Jane was hauled to her feet by Sherman, who placed a pointy cardboard hat on her head and handed her a small plastic horn.

“Four!”

“Three!”

Suddenly Walter was in front of Jane. “You didn’t think I’d let you ring the year in alone, did you?” he asked, grinning.

“Two!”

“One!”

Walter took Jane in his arms and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I’m glad you made it back.”

“Happy New Year!”

All around them people cheered and tooted on their horns and kissed one another. Walter released Jane and cheered along with them. “Happy New Year,” Jane said, but the celebration drowned out the sound of her voice.

Chapter 7

London was as unlike Glenheath as a peacock was unlike a wren. It swelled with life, boastful and proud. The colours were brighter, the smells richer, the sounds more cacophonous. Even the dogs seemed filled with purpose, trotting beside their masters as if they too were on their way to conduct important business or attend the opera.

—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

Taking the train was not nearly as interesting as it had been a hundred years ago. But it was faster, and that was something. As Jane sat and watched the dreary winter landscape pass by, her spirits were buoyed by the knowledge that she would be in New York City in a matter of hours. She could have flown, but she still wasn’t entirely trusting of airplanes. No matter how many times the principle was explained to her she just couldn’t quite believe that something as large as a plane could stay aloft.

It had been difficult to focus on running the bookstore the past few days. The prospect of meeting her new editor in person was thrilling. At the same time she was relieved to be leaving Brakeston. It had begun to feel claustrophobic. Her chat with Sherman had reminded her that too many people knew too much about each other’s business.

Then there was the small matter of Walter’s dead wife. Jane didn’t know why, but the fact that Walter had never mentioned Evelyn to her was upsetting. And it bothered her that it bothered her. Why should she care if he’d been married?

“I don’t,” she said firmly. “I don’t care at all.”

Across the aisle a boy of about eight turned and looked at her. He’d gotten on at Utica along with an older woman whom Jane assumed to be his grandmother. Ever since, he had been playing some kind of handheld video game that emitted a continuous stream of beeps and chirps that sounded to Jane like electronic crickets. Now the grandmother was asleep.

“Don’t care,” the boy said, mimicking Jane. “I don’t care.” He repeated the phrase over and over as he continued to play his game. Maddeningly, the sound of the game provided a musical background to his chanting. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep- bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep.

Jane glared at him. He turned his head and grinned at her. “I don’t care,” he chorused.

Jane bared her fangs at him and watched as the expression on his face changed from smugness to horror. He gasped, dropping his game. He fumbled beneath the seat for it, and when he came up Jane smiled at him. He turned his face away and sat very still, like a small bird in the presence of a cat.

Maybe she should give Walter a chance, Jane mused while looking out the window again. When she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she did like Walter very much. He was precisely the kind of man she allowed her heroines to fall in love with—strong-minded but willing to let her be herself, thoughtful and curious without being condescending, talented but without vanity. Yet if she allowed herself to be with him, she would risk wounding Walter deeply. She was especially wary now that she knew of his tragic past. A dead wife was no small thing. How would he ever accept an undead one? she thought.

It was all rather maddening, and no matter how she looked at it she could not come up with a satisfactory ending for the story. Walter would die and she would continue to live. Or he would ask her to make him a vampire,