Jane Bites Back

what to do about it. She could deny Violet’s claims, but as long as Violet was in possession of the manuscript there would always be evidence that Jane had copied someone’s work. Whether it was deemed by experts to be Charlotte’s or not, Jane would be charged with plagiarism.

I have to get it back, Jane thought. It’s the only way.

But how? She couldn’t just walk in and demand that Violet give it to her. You could always drain her, a voice in her head suggested.

It wasn’t a bad idea. She could easily do that, then look for the manuscript while the girl was out cold. With a bit of luck Violet wouldn’t remember any of it the next day. But she would still remember the manuscript, which would defeat the whole point. The only sure way to handle her was to drain her completely. To kill her.

Jane was tempted. After all, Violet was threatening her. Worse, she was accusing her of stealing her own work. She really does sort of deserve it, Jane thought. But what if she’d told someone else? A friend, perhaps? Or the manuscript expert she’d mentioned. Who was he? Jane had no idea. If she took out Violet, there were still people who could implicate her.

No, the only solution was to get the manuscript itself. Hopefully, Violet had only the one copy. If Jane could get it back, then Violet could make any accusations she wanted to, but without the proof to back them up she would never be taken seriously. She might be able to cause some irritation, or even speculation, but it would be short-lived. And if anyone looked hard enough, they would certainly see that Violet was as mad as a basket of rats.

Jane’s challenge, then, was to find the manuscript. If need be, she would bite the girl and incapacitate her, but she hoped that would not be necessary. She would prefer that Violet not see her at all. But she was prepared to do as she must.

She obviously could not enter the house through the kitchen, so she looked for another way. The front door was risky, but she thought a side window might do nicely. Unfortunately, the one she’d passed was locked. She went to the other side and found a second, smaller window. The glass was rippled and difficult to see through. This must be the bathroom, Jane thought.

She tried the window, and to her immense relief it slid up, revealing the bathroom Jane had suspected would be there. The door to the room was closed. Now Jane just had to get inside. She put her hands on the sill and gave a little jump. Her head passed into the room and she hung there for a moment, balanced on her stomach as she teetered like a seesaw. Then she was able to grasp the lip of the clawfoot bathtub over which she hovered and pulled herself in. She tumbled into the large tub and lay there, catching her breath and listening for the sound of footsteps.

When none came, she climbed out of the tub and went to the bathroom door. Peering through the keyhole, she looked into a long hallway. It was mostly dark, but from the far end came the glow of the kitchen lamp. So far, so good, thought Jane as she eased open the door. She stepped into the hall and looked around. There were two other doors, both of them closed. One of them, she hoped, led to the room where her manuscript was being stored.

She went to the first door and tried the knob. The door opened onto a closet filled with old coats. The smell of mothballs clung heavily to them. Jane stifled a cough as she closed the door and moved on. From the kitchen came the sound of running water. Dinner must be over, Jane thought. I’ll have to hurry.

The second door opened onto what appeared to be a study. A large desk faced one wall, and built-in bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling were filled near to bursting with volumes of all kinds. Oddly, given the time of year, a fire was burning in the small fireplace at the side of the room opposite the desk. An armchair sat in front of it, facing the fire. And before the hearth a small brown and white spaniel was stretched out, its paws twitching as it slept.

Great, thought Jane as she entered the room and shut the door carefully behind her. All she needed was for the dog to wake up and start barking. She eyed it warily as she went to the desk, which seemed the most logical place to look for her manuscript. She pulled open the center drawer. It was filled with the usual assortment of odds and ends: pens, erasers, stamps, a few sheets of stationery. Jane closed it again.

She went through each drawer as quickly and silently as she could. Each time she came up empty-handed. If Violet indeed had a manuscript, she had hidden it somewhere else. Jane stepped into the center of the room and looked around. Perhaps she’s secreted it inside one of the books, she thought, eyeing the shelves that were groaning beneath the weight of their holdings. There was no way she could look through each of them.

The dog gave a yip, making Jane flinch. She looked over at it and saw that it was still asleep. She wondered idly what it was dreaming about. Then she noticed that there was something on the chair beside it. A stack of papers. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? she wondered.

She crept over to the chair and looked. Leaning down, she picked up the papers and looked at them in the firelight. She watched him leave the house with a feeling of great triumph diluted by the bitter taste of despair, she read. She recognized it as the opening sentence (since revised) of chapter 17 of her novel. She recognized too her own hand. The manuscript appeared to be her original.

A single page fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up. It was the title page. Constance, it read. By Jane Austen. Only her name had been crossed out and the name of Charlotte Brontë had been written above it.

Violet really had found it after all. And she knew that Jane was the true author. Not Brontë. “Then why?” she heard herself say.

“Because it’s the book I should have written.”

Jane whirled around to find Violet standing behind her in the doorway. She was looking at Jane with an expression of pure hatred.

“I should have known you would come after it,” she said as she turned and shut the door to the room. “I suppose I did know.”

“What do you mean, it’s the book you should have written?” Jane asked. “Do you write?”

Violet laughed. Her tone was icy. Jane noticed the spaniel wake from its dream and sit up. Now I have two of them to worry about, she thought.

“Do I write?” Violet said. “Yes, I do. And far better than Austen. At least until she wrote that.” She nodded at the manuscript in Jane’s hand. “That is a masterpiece.”

“Thank you,” Jane said, her manners trumping her fear and confusion.

Violet shook her head. “Only no one will believe you wrote it,” she said. “They’ll think I did.”

“You?” said Jane. “You said you believe that Charlotte Brontë wrote it.” She held up the title page and shook it.

Violet scowled. “Are you really so stupid?” she said. “Haven’t you figured out who I am?”

“I know who you think you are,” said Jane carefully. She thought about the figures seated around the kitchen table. “You think you’re Charlotte Brontë. Which is fine,” she added quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You idiot!” Violet snapped. “I don’t think I’m Charlotte. I am Charlotte!”

As Violet opened her mouth in a roar, Jane saw the two fangs that had descended from her upper jaw. No, she thought. It can’t be.

“Give me the manuscript and I might let you live,” said Violet. She took a step toward Jane.

Let me live? Jane thought. What is she talking about? Then it dawned on her—Violet didn’t know who she was. She thinks I’m ordinary Jane Fairfax, she realized.

“Wait!” Jane shouted, stalling for time. “I’ll give it to you. Just tell me where you found it. I … I thought I’d found the only copy.”

Violet laughed. “Of course you did,” she said. “How would you know that I got this one from Lord Byron? Well, I stole it from him, anyway.”

“Byron?” said Jane. She thought for a moment. “He turned you, didn’t he?”

It was Violet’s turn to look confused. “How do you know that?” she hissed.

Jane rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, who do you think I am?” She