Jane Bites Back

the gardening section. “I love that book.” She stepped into the aisle and walked to the counter.

“And who might this lovely young lady be?” Brian asked.

“This is Lucy,” said Jane. “The manager of the shop.”

Lucy turned her head toward Jane. “Manager?” she said. “When did—”

“Surprise!” Jane said, hoping to distract her. “I was going to tell you this afternoon.”

“Wow,” said Lucy. Then she looked back to Brian. “Wow,” she said again, smiling, and Jane knew her tactic had failed. “I really loved your book. Your poetry is so beautiful. Spare and haunting.”

Brian touched his hand to his chest. “I’m humbled,” he said. “Thank you for saying that.”

“Lucy,” Jane said sharply.

Lucy turned her head, but slowly, as if she couldn’t bring herself to stop looking at Brian.

“Hmm?” she said.

“I noticed that the display of new titles is a little untidy,” said Jane. “Would you mind straightening it up?”

“Sure,” Lucy replied.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Brian said to her.

Lucy smiled. “For me too,” she said.

Jane watched as Lucy walked away, turning her head and gazing with what appeared to be longing at Brian’s back. Jane resisted the urge to yell at her to snap out of it.

“I came by yesterday looking for you,” Walter said, interrupting her thoughts. “Lucy said you were in New York.”

“Yes,” Jane croaked, her throat suddenly dry. “I, um, went to meet an old friend.”

“I love New York,” Brian said. “It has such wonderful energy.”

“Can’t say I care much for it myself,” said Walter. “Too loud. Too many people.” Jane wondered if she detected a note of irritation in his voice, as if he was annoyed with her for going away without telling him.

Brian laughed gently. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said. Then he looked at Jane. “How about you, Jane? Are you a small-town girl?”

He was teasing her, and she knew it. How dare you, she thought. But she forced herself to smile and say, “I find that both have something to offer, if you know where to look.”

She glanced at Walter as she spoke, and noted with some satisfaction that Brian’s eyes had followed her gaze. “I see,” he said. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Well then,” said Walter, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air. “Brian’s going to come to the Crandalls’ house with me today,” he told Jane.

“I’m thinking of working on a novel,” Brian explained. “I’m considering adding a builder to my story, and I thought it would be good to have some firsthand experience with the trade before I attempt to write about it.”

What are you up to? Jane wondered. What possible reason could you have for coming here? Whatever it was, she knew that nothing good could come of it.

“Jane,” said Walter, “I’ll give you a call later. Maybe we can all have dinner tonight at my place.”

“Maybe,” Jane said. “That might be nice.”

Walter nodded. “Great,” he said. “Now we’ll get out of your hair.”

Brian looked at Jane. “Until tonight, then,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I look forward to it.”

Jane said nothing in reply. She watched as Walter and Brian left the store. Only when they were out of sight did she bring a hand to her forehead. No, she thought. No, no, no, no, no.

A moment later, Lucy had joined her at the counter. “I can’t believe I just met Brian George!” she exclaimed. “I love his accent. It’s British, right?”

“Scottish, actually,” Jane corrected.

“Have you got a headache?” asked Lucy.

Jane took her hand away from her head. “Just a slight one,” she said. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

“I wonder what it would be like to date a writer,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

“Hideous,” said Jane. “It would be hideous. Especially that one.”

Lucy turned to her. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked. “And how do you know?”

“He’s a poet,” said Jane quickly. “Poets make dreadful partners. They’re always mooning around and asking you what rhymes with what. It’s so tedious.”

“Okay,” Lucy said slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind. But he’s still a hottie.”

Jane wanted to say more, but she didn’t dare. The last thing she wanted was Lucy getting near the man who called himself Brian George, but there was no way she could tell the young woman why without having to tell her many other things she wished to keep to herself. Most of all, she didn’t want to sound like a bitter older woman.

Which of course is exactly what you are, she told herself.

Chapter 11

She and Charles were returning from the picnic by the river. She was wearing the crown he’d woven for her out of daisies, and she carried her shoes in her hand. Despite her hat the sun had pinked her cheeks, but Charles, accustomed to hours spent in the gardens, had simply grown even more brown. He reached out and took her hand, and for a moment she was perfectly happy. Then a shadow fell across the path, and she looked up to see Jonathan standing in their way.

—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

Jane paused on Walter’s front porch. Just relax, she told herself. There’s no reason to worry.

But there was reason to worry, and no amount of wishing it away would calm her anxiety. She would simply have to get through the evening as best she could.

Walter answered the door moments after she’d rung the bell. He was wiping his hands on a dish towel, and an apron was tied around his waist. It was spattered with what appeared to be some kind of sauce.

“Come in,” Walter said, smiling and waving her inside. He appeared to be in a very good mood.

“Hello again.” Brian George stood in the living room, a glass of wine in his hand. A second glass, nearly empty, stood on the table beside the couch.

“Hello,” Jane said coolly as Walter helped her off with her coat and went to hang it in the hall closet.

“I’m so pleased you could join us,” Brian said, as if he and not Walter were the host.

“Yes,” said Jane vaguely, avoiding Brian’s gaze. “Well.”

Walter, oblivious to what was passing between them, returned with a glass and a bottle of wine. “Brian brought the most wonderful wine,” he said as he poured a glass for Jane. “I’ve already had two glasses.”

That explains the good mood, Jane thought as she accepted the glass. She hesitated a moment before taking a sip. Walter was right; it was delicious.

“Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” she said.

Brian nodded. “I brought a few bottles with me,” he replied. “It’s my favorite.”

Yes, Jane thought, I remember. It was also one of the most coveted wines in the world, far too expensive for a poet to afford. She wondered if Walter realized what he was drinking.

“Have a seat,” Walter suggested.

Jane waited until Brian took a seat on the couch, then seated herself in one of the armchairs on the side of the coffee table opposite him. Walter took the other chair.

“Tell me, Jane, how long have you lived in Brakeston?” Brian inquired.

“Nearly ten years,” Jane said, her voice clipped.

“Ten years,” Brian repeated. “Long enough to be considered a local, I think.”