Jane Bites Back

“I learned long ago not to make any,” said Jane. “They only set you up for failure.”

This was true. As girls she and Cassie had always made New Year’s resolutions. They wrote them on pieces of paper that were then folded and sealed with the wax from their father’s study, and gave them to each other for safekeeping. They did not open them until the next New Year’s Eve, when they looked at what they had written and debated whether or not they had achieved their goals. Too often Jane had failed, although admittedly this was generally because her resolutions were along the lines of “stop gossiping about the neighbors” and “try to pay more attention in church.” Cassie, who was much more likely to have accomplished her goals, never made Jane feel small. Regardless, her lack of success chafed, and she had eventually stopped altogether.

“Well, I have some,” Lucy continued, undeterred. “I’m going to go to yoga three times a week, learn French, run a marathon, and get at least two poems published—and not online, in real magazines. Oh, and I’m going to volunteer helping underprivileged kids learn to read.”

“Very admirable,” Jane told her. “I applaud your determination.”

“Or maybe I should just lose five pounds, finally paint my bedroom, and stop smoking,” said Lucy.

“You don’t smoke,” Jane said.

“I could start,” Lucy replied. “Then it would be easy to stop and I would feel better about myself.”

Jane laughed, then left Lucy to her work and went into the back storeroom to check the stock. As she counted books she considered the notion of resolutions. If she were going to make any, what would they be? Losing weight was out—she was dead, after all—as was smoking (although she admired Lucy’s novel approach to giving up vices).

“I suppose I could stop eating so much,” she concluded, “or at least so many.” But without Cassie to determine the extent of her success or failure, there’d be no fun in it. Sighing, she pushed the entire matter from her mind and rearranged the cookbooks.

Several hours later, having sent Lucy home and locked up the store, she was faced with another decision— what to wear to Walter’s party. As she looked through her closet, what little enthusiasm she had for the evening disappeared completely. Everything seemed either too drab or completely unsuitable. “It’s not as if I go to a lot of parties,” Jane informed Tom, who sat on the bed watching her.

Dressing had been so much easier in her day. True, there had been a few more undergarments to contend with, but by and large the actual dresses themselves varied only a little. “One always knew exactly what one should wear to what,” said Jane.

She considered, and rejected, a number of different possibilities. She was surprised to realize that it wasn’t because she couldn’t decide what to wear, or even that she had to attend a party about which she was not terribly excited. “It’s because I care what Walter thinks,” she admitted to Tom, who was now asleep.

She suddenly felt very foolish. She was, for the first time in a very long time, worrying about how she appeared to a man. “It’s just Walter,” she told herself. “He doesn’t care how you look.”

But it wasn’t about him; it was about her. For reasons she chose not to dwell upon, she wanted to be attractive for him. It was a worrying prospect, but it was there nonetheless and she had to acknowledge it. Stupid girl, she thought as she renewed her search for something suitable. Even Catherine had more sense.

Eventually she decided on a sleeveless velvet dress in deep green. The occasion for its purchase was long forgotten, but it was the nicest thing in her closet, and so she put it on. It was decidedly modern, a far cry from the confections of her time. The hem fell just above the knees, and there were no unnecessary frivolities like bows or rosettes to get in the way. She vaguely recalled having purchased it somewhere in the late fifties (perhaps a party at the Kennedy summer home?), and for a moment worried that it was out of date. But retro is in, she reminded herself. For once you’ll be fashion forward, even if it’s purely a result of never throwing anything out. She added earrings and a necklace, then checked her reflection in the mirror.

Staring at herself, she wondered what Walter would think. Again she wished that Cassie were there to tell her she was presentable. Maybe I should just stay home, she thought. But she’d promised Walter she would come. And it was only for a few hours. “How bad could it be?” she asked herself.

Chapter 6

That Jonathan Brut had a scandalous past she had absolutely no doubt. His reputation as a scoundrel was common knowledge not only in London, but also in the sleepy towns and villages far beyond that city’s bustling streets. It was said that he had been the ruin of a score of women—maidens and married alike—one of whom reportedly killed herself with poison when he ended their affair. It was for precisely these reasons that Constance had chosen him.

—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

“You look stunning,” Walter told Jane when he saw her.

“As do you,” Jane replied. And it was true. Gone were Walter’s usual work clothes. Instead he was dressed in a pair of black pants and a deep blue cashmere sweater over a white shirt. His hair was freshly cut, and he radiated happiness. Jane found herself slightly tongue-tied.

“There are so many people here,” she said quickly, looking around the room. Walter’s house seemed to be overflowing with guests, all of whom were dressed in holiday finery. Suddenly, Jane’s plain green dress seemed woefully inadequate, despite Walter’s compliment.

Walter placed his arm around her waist. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “There are some Historical Society members here, and I promised to bore them with the details of my plans for the restoration of the library. But don’t disappear. I’ll be looking for you later.”

Jane watched him go, feeling her discomfort increase. She’d arrived late, hoping to limit the amount of time she had to endure the party. As a young lady at Steventon rectory, she had loved parties, had looked forward to dancing and playing the pianoforte, to the lively conversations and drawing-room intrigues. How many times she and Cassie had sat together on a sofa, holding hands and whispering scandalously about the goings-on both seen and unseen. Now she scanned the living room for a place of refuge and saw, seated alone on the couch, Sherman Applebaum. The editor of the smaller of the town’s two newspapers, Sherman was into the latter half of his sixties. He had a fondness for waistcoats and bowler hats, which Jane found charming. He was also, she knew from past encounters, an inveterate gossip. Her favorite kind.

She crossed the room and took a seat beside Sherman.

“Finally, someone has come to my rescue,” Sherman said dramatically. “I was starting to think I might spend the entire evening alone.”

Jane laughed. “Somehow I think you’d be your own best company, Sherman.”

Sherman smiled and patted Jane’s knee. “You flatter me,” he said. “Please do continue. At my advanced age I don’t have many opportunities to be complimented by attractive young women.”

If you only knew, Jane thought. Even your great-great-great- grandfather couldn’t accurately call me a young woman.

“Where did you get that lovely drink?” she asked. “I need one desperately.”

“I’ll get one for you,” Sherman said. “Don’t go away.”

“No, no,” said Jane. “I’ll go.”

“Nonsense,” Sherman replied, standing up. “A gentleman never allows a lady to get her own drink. Besides, I fear that if I don’t move around from time to time, I’ll wither and die.”

He got up and meandered toward the kitchen. Jane settled into the sofa to await his return, scanning the room for any signs of intriguing topics of conversation. Then, as if out of nowhere, a woman materialized in front of her.

“Jane,” she said. “What a surprise.”

Jane nearly jumped out of her seat. “Miranda,” she answered. “How nice to see you.”

This was not true. Miranda Fleck was an assistant professor of English at nearby Meade College. She was