Jane Bites Back

“What did you do?” Jane asked. She felt her heart beating, but something was different. She was changed somehow.

“You’ve been reborn,” said Byron. “I took your life, then gave it back to you.” He showed her his wrist. Blood flowed from a fresh wound. Jane realized with horror that the liquid in her mouth was not water. She ran her tongue over her teeth and found them thick with the taste of meat and iron.

“No,” she said, trying to push herself away from Byron. “Let me go!”

Byron pulled her back, holding her tightly against his chest. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s done.”

“You drowned me!” Jane cried, beating at him with her fists.

“A dream,” said Byron. “Of your rebirth. We all experience it differently. But you have never left this bed.”

“What have you done?” Jane sobbed. “What have you done to me?”

The alarm woke her up. Tom was sitting beside her, staring down at her expectantly. He meowed once.

Jane sat up. Already the nightmare was fading. But she remembered enough of it. It hadn’t come to her in a very long time. Now, she feared, it would return again and again. Byron’s kiss had given new life to it.

“Damn him,” she said to Tom. “Damn him for coming back.”

Chapter 13

To be a writer, she thought, must be the most wonderful thing in the world, if for no other reason than that one’s characters would have to do exactly as they were told. Unlike flesh-and-blood men, they were not likely to behave in contrary ways, forever-leaving one perplexed and unsettled, never-knowing quite what they were thinking.

—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

“I’ve got good news.”

It took a moment for Jane to recognize Kelly’s voice. “Should I sit down?” she asked.

“You’ll just jump back up again. We got a blurb from Margot Aldridge.”

Jane couldn’t suppress a squeal of joy. “The Beauty of Lies Margot Aldridge?” she said.

“Is there another one?” asked Kelly.

Jane laughed. “I certainly hope not,” she said.

“She doesn’t blurb anything,” Kelly said. “But I know her editor, and I took a chance. Jennifer passed the manuscript on to Margot and she absolutely loved it. Do you want to hear it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “Do I?”

Kelly ignored her remark and began to read. “‘Constance is the rare novel that so deftly explores the lives of its characters that we forget they exist only on the page. Jane Fairfax’s debut is absolutely magical.’”

Jane couldn’t speak. “Are you there?” Kelly asked after twenty seconds of silence.

“Read it again,” Jane said finally.

Kelly did. “And that’s not all,” he told Jane. “I think we’ll be getting quotes from Fisher McTavish and Anne Gardot.”

Jane gripped the phone tightly. “Keep naming my favorite authors and I’m going to have a heart attack,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“I told you it was a great book,” said Kelly. “Everyone here is excited about it. I haven’t seen them push a book through so quickly since we did the tell-all by that woman who had the affair with the president. Bound galleys are already going out to reviewers, and sales is making a big push to the chains and Amazon to make sure they promote the hell out of this as soon as possible.”

“Now I am sitting down,” Jane said. “I can’t believe this. It’s only been two weeks since I was there.”

“And it’s just beginning,” Kelly said. “You should be hearing from Nick Trilling later today. He’s your publicity guy. We need to put together an author bio to send to the press.”

Suddenly Jane’s excitement waned. She hadn’t even thought about a bio. Getting the book published at all was the only thing that had concerned her. Having to promote herself was the furthest thing from her mind.

“I suppose I can come up with something,” she said. “But I’m not terribly interesting, you know.”

“Are you kidding?” said Kelly. “A bookstore owner who writes her first novel when she’s fortysomething? You’re a publicist’s dream. Every woman in America will be able to relate to you, Jane.”

I doubt that, Jane thought. “Perhaps,” she replied to Kelly. “Anyway, I’m happy to speak with—what did you say his name is, Nick?”

“Nick Trilling,” Kelly repeated. “I’ve got a meeting to get to, but I wanted to tell you what’s happening.”

“Thank you,” said Jane. “I must say it’s all a bit surreal.”

“Think of it as a dream come true,” Kelly said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Jane.”

Jane hung up. A dream come true, she thought. That’s not always a good thing.

She thought back to her dinner with Walter and Byron and to what had happened afterward. That night she’d remembered everything vividly. The secret visit to his house on the shore of Lake Geneva. The loss of her innocence. The pain that followed. It had all come back to her. Her death and resurrection. Her declaration of love for Byron once he’d explained what she now was. His callous dismissal of her affections, and her shameful return to England.

The worst of the memories was of having to leave Cassie. Staging her own illness and subsequent death over the course of a year was difficult, but she had managed it with the help of a sympathetic physician recommended to her by another of her kind, several of whom she had met seemingly by accident, though she now suspected that Byron had told them about her. Leaving Cassie had been almost unbearable. For months she had done nothing but weep and wish herself truly dead.

It was this loss for which she couldn’t forgive Byron. For now all she wanted was to tell Cassie about her book. Her earlier work had all been published anonymously, her identity known only to a small circle of friends. Fame had come after her death. She knew Cassie would be thrilled for her and would be more excited even than Jane was that she would finally get to hold a book with her name on it in her hands.

She had managed to avoid Byron for several days, and he had not called upon her. She assumed he was busy with his work, and was relieved to be free of him, if only temporarily. She had forced herself to feed so that she could be rid of the residual fogginess caused by their encounter, driving to a town an hour away and, assuming the identity of a weary housewife, asking a pimple-faced bag boy at the Price Chopper to help her to the car with her bags filled with corn chips, salsa, and lite beer. She had eaten quickly and left him to sleep it off beside a Dumpster in the parking lot, his head resting on a box of day-old donuts. Now she felt more or less herself.

“Hey. Whatchya doing?”

Lucy’s voice startled Jane, who spun around in her chair.

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re officially out of Mark Twain finger puppets. Should I order some more?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “I think not,” she said. “Don’t we still have half a dozen Tennysons to get rid of?”

Lucy leaned against the desk. “Yeah,” she answered. “But the Austens are almost gone. Mr. Hunky bought one yesterday.”

“Who?” Jane asked.

“The new guy,” said Lucy. “Brian George.”

“He was in yesterday?” Jane inquired.

Lucy nodded. “When you went to the bank. I think he has a crush on you,” she added.

“What?” Jane said, a little too loudly. Had Lucy really noticed something between the two of them? The