“I feel terrible. I almost killed you.”
“You did nothing of the sort. If anything, you’ve brought me to life.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “Thank you, for showing me this,” she explained.
He stared at her. Jane grew aware he still held his hand on her under the water. The other held the edge of the pool. He seemed to grow aware of it, too. He sighed but did not move. He swallowed. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Please stop asking that,” she said, silencing him.
The air seemed to shift around them; the mood changed. She felt his breath on her collarbone. He moved his eyes downward and looked at her mouth.
In terms of experience in such matters, Jane could lay claim to the title of “limited.” In her twenty-eight years on the earth, pitifully, no man had ever put his hand there, or moved his eyes so, or shown any intentions toward her of doing what Fred now seemed to want to do. She stole a glance at his face and beheld a look in his eyes both noble and brazen. Her heart beat wildly; her mind moved. She wondered if he was aware of her inexperience, if he detected a childishness in the way she held herself or breathed, if it disappointed him, if she should move differently. He continued to look and smile at her; nothing he did seemed to indicate he was anything other than pleased, and perhaps a little scared, of the current situation, and of what might come next. She inhaled and waited and ordered herself to keep breathing.
Unfortunately, possessed with a brain like a chess player’s, always contemplating several steps ahead, she found her mind moving forward over the pleasant parts and on to the things to worry about.
It was not so much the act itself that concerned her, though she was curious and petrified of that, too; it was the afterward that put her mind in a spin. What happened next, beyond him doing the thing he intended? Could she happily return to her own time, once she had known what a kiss from him felt like? She glanced at his face. Once he had kissed her, she knew with her heart, as feeble and inexperienced as it was, she would find it difficult ever to leave him. How glorious it might feel to become swept up in a thing like this. But the hard times afterward could never atone for a few moments of magic. Surely not. Indeed, the act comprised nothing but folly.
“How can you have reached adulthood without learning to swim?” he asked in a kind voice. He leaned his head toward hers, so close now that she inhaled sharply. She prayed for strength.
She searched for a tactic to halt the operation. She arrived at a compelling one. She closed her eyes at how compelling it would be.
“Because I am Jane Austen,” she declared.
The words had the desired effect. Fred drew his head back and blinked. He gave the reaction of any sane person offered such a declaration. He studied her face. “I’m sorry?” he said. His eyes were filled with hope, as though perhaps he had misheard her.
“I am Jane Austen,” she repeated.
“The writer,” he said with a disbelieving nod. His eyes went blank.
Jane nodded.
“I see,” he said. He dropped his hand from where it had been and frowned.
What did he think now? That she was insane, appropriating the writer in some hysterical hallucination? Or did he think she mocked him? Either way, her words had done their job.
“You don’t need to make up stories,” he said.
“It is no story, sir,” she said.
The damage was complete. He moved more parts of him away from her. He assisted her from the water, gently, deliberately, as one did a child. He shrouded her in a towel.
“I speak the truth,” Jane tried again. She did not know why she felt the need to insist, now that the moment had passed, but she kept doing so.
Fred nodded. “Have you been telling this to Sofia?” he asked in a soft voice.
“I am from the year eighteen hundred and three,” Jane continued, though it was futile. “I journeyed to this time. You do not believe me.” She preached the ludicrous gospel for effect, to drive him away. But she nevertheless felt a sting that he had not accepted it.
“You’ve taken advantage of her. I’ll take you home.” He looked at her with sad eyes.
“I shall be gone from the house as soon as it can be arranged,” she said.
Fred nodded.
Jane put her clothes back on over her sea-bathing suit. Water dripped from Fred’s clothes. His shirt fabric clung to his body. She offered him the towel. He shook his head.
“Please, I insist. You shall catch cold.”
He relented and accepted the towel. He dried himself perfunctorily and handed the towel back.
They returned to the house in silence. Fred walked ahead of her, close enough for her not to lose her way in the dark streets, but far enough that all communication was impossible.
Upon arriving at the house, Fred bade her good night and closed his door. Jane lay in the guest room in her wet clothes. She stared at the clock on the wall. How lovely it would be to turn back its hands.
Instead she closed her eyes and offered a grim nod of recognition to herself. Her behavior toward Fred was not purely an act of self-preservation, it was something else, too. She had treated other men the same way. While no man had tried to kiss her before, others had wanted her. Mr. Withers had likely spurned her because she was poor and old, but what she kept to herself was that she too had let men go: nicer, poorer suitors who made better matches for her station. She had rejected these men in earlier times, before her age became a problem.
Jane sat on the bed, her hair still dripping, and reflected upon a list of three to four decent
