Jane went green as the mortifying realization dawned. Sofia had indeed told her earlier to keep her true identity a secret, but she had never fully understood why. “I’ve been speaking to him all this time as though he is aware that I have travelled here from a long time past.” She recalled all the conversations she had had with him and cringed. “What must he think of me?”
Sofia raised an eyebrow. “Why, what did you say to him?”
“I commented at length about the price of sugar, among other things.” She placed her head in her hands.
“Don’t worry,” Sofia said.
“But how should I behave around him?” she asked in a frantic voice.
“Don’t panic. That was probably the last time you will see him. But if you are forced to engage with him, just remember your cover story. You are an actress. You are from the twenty-first century.”
Jane nodded. “I am an actress. I am from the twenty-first century,” she repeated.
“Do you know the expression ‘when in Rome’?” Sofia asked.
“Indeed. Augustine, 390 AD.”
Sofia smirked. “For now, how about you ‘do as the Romans do’?”
“I shall observe and replicate the modern custom,” Jane said.
“It won’t be a problem anyway, as you won’t be leaving the house.” Sofia bade Jane farewell and shut the front door behind her.
FRED EMERGED A few minutes later. He wore a blue shirt. “I’m off to work,” he said, in the casual way everyone now seemed to speak. Many times, Jane’s brain chased down the meanings of the phrases that littered the new vernacular. “Faster than a speeding bullet” she liked, though it had required a full twenty seconds of cognition, staring into confused space, before she gathered its meaning. “Did Sofia go already?” he asked her.
Jane nodded. She searched his face for any signs of residual awkwardness. Where did things between them now stand? She wasn’t sure. There had been some softening between them after their trip to London, but it did not undo the hostility that had existed during the events before it. Were they friends now? Certainly not. But did he still dislike her? It was hard to tell.
“She’s left you here alone all day?” Fred asked. “They don’t need you on set?”
Jane hesitated at the unexpected question and scrambled for an explanation. “I am unwell,” she lied. She coughed and hoped the accompanying noise approximated the severity of a head cold. “I am to stay inside. I shall be fine. I have a book to read.”
The excuse seemed to work, for the next thing she knew he was offering to make her a fire. “You should keep warm,” he said. Despite Jane’s protests, he walked outside to the back garden. “Stay inside,” he commanded. Jane watched from the back window as he selected a two-foot-long log from a pyramid of wood stacked against the house’s back wall. He rolled his sleeves to the elbows and placed the wood on a stump. He raised an axe over his head, then brought it down with ease, splitting the log in half. The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed as he raised the axe and carved three more logs.
A memory struck Jane, from when she was twelve years old. The lid had stuck on a jar of pickled carrots in the kitchen of the Austens’ rectory in Hampshire, and Jane and her mother had quarreled over how to liberate the vegetables from their briny sarcophagus. Jane favored a scientific approach, warming the lid while cooling the glass beneath, whereas her mother preferred to bash it across the bench. They each tried with their own system, yet the lid remained tight on the jar, as though cemented in place. Martin, the rectory steward, had entered then—summoned no doubt by the dulcet tones of the discussion between Jane and Mama—and gently took the jar from them. A young man in his twenties, Martin held the jar, and with no warming or bashing, turned the lid with his fingers and popped it open like it was nothing. Jane witnessed the muscles flex in his forearms and realized for the first time that men existed, separate from women.
Fred brought the wood inside and knelt at the hearth. He laid the logs well; he placed the kindling at the base, and then built the larger logs around it. He drew a spark from a box he took from his pocket. He lowered the flame to the wood and held it there, watching. It did not catch at first, so he left his hand there and waited. Jane watched him, astonished at the sight. The wood caught fire, but he held his hand there, watching the orange flame lick his fingers. This startled her. She could not be sure he did this deliberately; perhaps he simply wanted to make sure the fire caught fully. But he left his hand there well longer than required, and the sight evoked a piece of his character that disarmed her. She sensed a small darkness in him, some recklessness or desire for ruin she had not seen before. Finally, he retracted his hand.
The fire grew with assured speed and soon a prickly warmth glowed through the room. Jane thanked him, unsure of how profusely to do so. “Thank you. Producing a fire is not easy,” she said to him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“And the night we danced, I recall you telling me you did nothing well,” she said. “But you did that well,” she added.
He nodded. “I do some things well,” he said. He smiled but did not look at her.
Jane swallowed, unsure of how to take the comment. She tried not to inhale too deeply.
“Feel better, Jane,” he said, and touched her elbow. He took his leave.
Jane felt startled by the uncommon mix of teasing and tenderness that seemed to pervade her interactions with him. One moment, he appeared annoyed and distant with her, mocking and making fun,
