Jane Bites Back

where we belong.”

“Ah,” said Jane. “Perhaps we could set up house on the shore of Lake Geneva. I believe one of the movie stars summers in your old house now. George Clooney, I think, or perhaps it’s the Jolie-Pitts. But I’m sure they would let us lease it the rest of the year.”

She stared at Byron, awaiting one of his famous bursts of temper. She had pushed him, perhaps too far, but her anger had turned into a bright fire she could no longer contain.

She was surprised when he laughed loudly. “You’ve changed some since our last meeting,” he said. “I like it.”

He became suddenly thoughtful. “You know this life of yours has to end someday,” he said. “What do you have, another five years? Perhaps ten? Then what? Are you going to tell your Walter what you are? Are you going to turn him?”

“I would never do that,” Jane snapped.

“Turn him?” asked Byron. “Or tell him?”

Jane looked away.

“I thought as much,” Byron said. “You see, you’ve already decided. Which leaves only my proposal.”

Jane was shaking her head as he spoke. Now she steeled herself and lifted her head. “I don’t love you,” she said firmly.

Once more Byron laughed at her. “Who said anything about love?” he replied. “We’re both far too old to believe in happily ever after, Jane.”

“Perhaps you don’t,” said Jane.

Byron smiled. “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ‘Tis woman’s whole existence.”

“Stop quoting yourself,” Jane said. “It’s vain even for you.”

“Yet you know it to be true,” Byron said.

Jane sniffed. “I’ve yet to become so cynical.”

“Give it time,” Byron told her. “At any rate, my offer remains the same. Come with me or sacrifice Lucy and Walter. Is that a price you’re willing to pay?”

Jane fought off the urge to turn and run. That would be useless. Byron would find her. And she knew as well that if she refused him, he would do exactly what he was threatening to do.

“Walter would never understand what you are,” said Byron, interrupting her thoughts. “And you would watch him grow old and die. With me you would not suffer that.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “It would be easier.”

“Then you’ve decided,” said Byron. “Good.”

“I have decided,” Jane answered, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. She took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to tell them the truth.”

Chapter 15

She closed her eyes. His arms went around her, pulling her close. His fingers stroked her hair. She resisted only a moment. Then she opened her eyes and looked into his face. As he kissed her, she imagined it was Charles’s mouth covering hers.

 —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Walter, who was dicing carrots, stopped chopping for a moment. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Do you?”

He resumed his knife work. The nick-nick-nick of the knife against the wood was annoying. Jane’s nerves were already frayed, and the sound grated on her ears as if someone were rapping ceaselessly on a door. Who can it be (cried I) who chops these unoffending vegetables? she found herself thinking. She wished he would stop.

“I used to see them,” she said, speaking more loudly than usual to be heard above the noise. “When I was a child.”

Walter finished the carrots, swept them into a pan, and picked up an onion. “Really?” he said. He didn’t sound incredulous or mocking, and Jane wondered if he’d even heard her. “My grandmother believed she could see ghosts.”

Jane was making the salad to go with dinner. She’d been told to tear the lettuce into smaller pieces. She’d done such a thorough job that she now had a pile of what resembled wet green confetti. It was useless, and she quickly deposited it in the trash can before Walter could see it. The conversation was not going as well as she’d hoped, mainly because she had no idea how to begin.

“Yes,” she said. “Several times. Once it was a man who stood on the stairs of a church, and another time it was a little girl who appeared in our garden. She said she was looking for her cat. She said its name was Mogger.”

“She spoke to you?” Walter said as he cut the onion in half. Although she was several feet away, Jane’s eyes began to water almost immediately.

She nodded. “Isn’t that odd?”

Walter shrugged. “Who can say?” he answered. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hamlet was mad, of course,” Jane replied. “But the sentiment is appreciated.”

“Why are you asking?” said Walter. “Have you been seeing ghosts?”

Jane shook her head and tore violently at a fresh piece of lettuce. I wish that were all it was, she thought. To Walter she said, “No. It’s just that today Lucy was talking about something to do with them and it made me realize that I don’t know much about what you believe about … things,” she concluded inadequately.

Having finished with the onion, Walter rinsed his hands and dried them on a dish towel. “Things,” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Jane. “Things.”

“Like ghosts,” Walter said.

“Ghosts,” Jane agreed. “And … I don’t know. God, I suppose. Heaven. Hell. What happens when we die.”

Walter raised one eyebrow. “Those are big questions,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a drink if we’re going to tackle them. Would you like one?”

“Please,” Jane answered.

Walter took two glasses from a cupboard and selected a bottle from the half dozen cradled in the wine rack. He uncorked it and poured some into the glasses. He handed one to Jane.

“This has about another thirty minutes,” he said, nodding at the lamb stew that was bubbling on the stove. “Why don’t we go sit down?”

Jane gratefully abandoned the disastrous salad and joined Walter in the living room. He’d lit a fire, and the room was warm and smelled faintly of pine smoke. Under other circumstances she would have felt relaxed, but considering what she was about to do, she could enjoy none of it.

“Do you want to start with ghosts and work our way up to God, or start with him and work our way down?” Walter asked as he sank into the cushions of the couch. Jane began to seat herself in one of the chairs, but Walter patted the place beside him. “Sit here,” he said.

Although she’d been hoping to keep some distance between them, Jane did as Walter asked. However, she sat as far away from him as she could without appearing to be rejecting him. He turned sideways, his arm along the back of the couch, and looked at her. “God or ghosts?” he asked.

“God,” Jane said. “Might as well get the biggest thing out of the way first.”

Walter rested his glass of wine on his knee as he spoke. “I was raised Episcopalian,” he began. “Mostly we