Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (11 page)

“Of course I do not, I—”

He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, and the touch sends a thrill through my body. “Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

His lips move so close to mine that they are practically touching. And then he does touch my lips with his own, so lightly and softly that I cannot summon the wherewithal to push him away. And then the kiss becomes more urgent, more intoxicating, and I am drunk with it, and when he runs the tips of his fingers over the edge of my jaw, the touch instantly brings me back to another day, and I see and feel myself with him as he touches me in the same way, kisses me in the same way. And I am kissing his lips, tasting his mouth, lying with him in bed, his body stretched over mine, his skin against my skin, his leg against my bare leg. And I know with all my soul that this is not me, but it is me. My body, this body, knows that this is a memory. A memory as vivid as any memory I have ever had before. Yet it is a memory of something that never happened. It is Courtney’s memory, not mine. I know not how such a thing can be; yet it is as real as any sensation I have experienced since awakening yesterday morning. How can I remember having been with this man? And in a manner far more compromising than anything I ever did with Edgeworth.

My face burns—and I am pushing him away. Almost without volition I scramble off the chair, away from Frank, away from Wes and the shocked look in his eyes, and I run towards a glowing sign on the other side of the room that says “Ladies.” Perhaps it is a sanctuary, a drawing room.

“Hey!” I hear behind me. Frank’s voice. I reach the door, a padded door, red of course, and pull on the handle. Inside is a wide mirror to my right with a row of wash-hand basins beneath it. To my left is a series of doors that do not reach all the way to the floor, or to the ceiling. I fiddle with the handles on one of the wash-hand basins until a cool stream of water flows into the bowl. I wet my face.

What have I done? How could I let a man kiss me, and in public? A man I do not even know. I who never kissed a man till Edgeworth, the man I loved, and we would have raised a scandal had anyone seen us in the woods that day, though he asked me to marry him. Yet I let Frank kiss me. And I feel it again, his lips on mine, his body lying on top of mine, and my arms pressing him closer to me, my hands running down the length of his torso, his—dear God, what is happening to me? What sort of woman have I become? Have I longed for a new life and had my dearest wish fulfilled, have I been transported somehow, transmigrated somehow, into this body, only to learn that I am an unmarried woman who has actually bedded a man she would not marry, that I am a woman who frequents public houses with men, who imbibes liquor and does not attend church, a woman who is godless and profligate and fallen?

The realization that I have inherited all this sin almost takes my breath away. What has become of me? How will I live with myself? And how will I ever face that man again? I must get out of here. I cannot look at him. My breath comes fast and hard, and I have to grip the edge of the wash-hand basin to avoid stumbling back against the row of doors behind me. I may be mad. I may be fallen. But I shall not faint.

“You okay?”

I hear myself gasp. I look up, and in the mirror’s reflection is a young lady who has just emerged from one of the three-quarter doors behind me. Her skin is the color of chocolate laced heavily with cream.

“Oh, it’s you, Courtney,” she says, smiling her delight.

Oh, dear. Another person I am supposed to know but whose countenance is wholly unfamiliar to me.

“You don’t remember me, do you. I’m Deepa. You were at my party a couple of months ago?”

Her accent is like that of the actress from the
Pride and Prejudice
movie. Could she be from my country?

She frowns, a concerned, good-natured sort of frown. “We talked for quite a while, actually. Hey, you okay? You don’t look okay.”

I suppose the sour countenance looking back at me from the mirror must be the opposite of what “okay” means.

“I assure you I am,” I say, but that is all I can get out, for my eyes begin to fill and my mouth quivers with the effort to keep back the tears.

Deepa pulls a paper handkerchief from a brown spangled reticule, sparkly bracelets jangling, and hands it to me. There are rings on almost every one of her fingers, and from her ears clear globes studded with diamonds dangle from the thinnest wires imaginable.

I take the handkerchief and wipe my eyes, and she looks upon me kindly with large brown eyes as she hands me another one. Her hair is shiny black and cut short, with jagged strands over arched black brows.

“You were unhappy the last time we met as well. And I was in a bit of a strop, too, I might add. All those people coming up to me and telling me how sorry they were about my divorce. When all I wanted to do was breathe a big sigh of relief. Though I must say, you and I ended up making each other laugh.” She gazes at me searchingly. “You really don’t remember, do you? You’d had a lot to drink, but I didn’t think you were that drunk.”

“Do forgive me,” I say. “I am told I have a—concussion, and there is much I do not remember.”

“No way. What happened?”

“I hit my head in a pool, I’m told.”

“And you don’t remember that either?” She regards me kindly. “But it’ll all come back, won’t it?”

I shrug.

“Hey, some things aren’t worth remembering, believe me.”

At that moment, there is pounding on the door, which then opens slightly. Wes peeks in and looks sheepish when he sees that there is another lady here beside me. “Oh, hi, Deepa. Sorry, but I just wanted to see if—Courtney, you okay?”

I can hardly bring myself to meet his eyes after what he saw me do with Frank, who, in that moment, strolls in and leans against the wall as if he has every right to intrude upon our sanctuary.

Deepa gives me a significant look, and my face burns. “Like I said, some things aren’t worth remembering.”

How much does she know about my connection with Frank?

“You do realize,” she says to the gentlemen, hand on hip, “that this is a women’s bathroom?”

Frank smirks. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Wes reaches for me. “Courtney, let’s get out of here.”

I am so stunned that he would still wish to escort me home that I cannot even speak.

“You sure, Courtney?” says Deepa. “I’m happy to take you home.”

“Is that what you want?” Wes says to me.

All I know is that I want to get away from Frank and those—memories, or whatever they are. And from the disappointment in Wes’s eyes.

“I would like to leave with Deepa.”

“Pity,” Frank says, eyeing me as if I were a tray of rout cakes. Then he has the assurance to take my hand and give me a soul-searching “trust me” look as he takes his leave.

“I’ll call you,” is all Wes says, his hands at his sides, his attitude that of one who would like to stop me but knows he is helpless to do anything but leave.

The door closes behind the two men. Deepa arches an eyebrow. “You’re not still with Frank?”

“Apparently, I ended our engagement. I believe I found him with another lady.”

She nods and purses her lips. I can see that she is not in the least surprised by this intelligence.

“You said I was unhappy when last we met. May I ask, was I unhappy about Frank?”

“Understatement. You said you were tired of his ceaseless flirting with other women, which had got much worse lately, and which, I might add, he was putting on a fine exhibition of at my party. I asked you why you put up with it. And you know what you said? That Frank was under a lot of pressure. And that you were so overwhelmed with wedding plans, you simply couldn’t deal with anything else.”

“What sort of woman would tolerate such conduct?”

“Hey, I’m not one to point the finger. I put up with that cheating sod of an ex I married and divorced. Only thing I can say in his favor is that he left me very well off. Though I was the one who left him. Best thing I ever did.”

I admire her confidence, the same confidence all the women of this time seem to possess, with all their talk of self-will and marriage and divorce and independence, as if the whole world has been laid out for them to manage and rearrange as they wish. I cannot imagine any woman of my acquaintance even thinking, let alone speaking, in such a manner. I’ll wager even Mary Wollstonecraft would be rendered mute in their presence.

Deepa regards me kindly. “So you’re with Wes now?”

“I am not; I mean—”

“Hey, don’t look so shocked.”

“He is a friend.” I can feel my face crimson.

“I don’t know him very well,” says Deepa. “He’s a friend of a friend. But he always seemed like a decent guy. Sweet, you know? And easy on the eyes.”

“I do like him. Very much. But my friends Paula and Anna say he’s not to be trusted. That he, in fact, lied to prevent my finding out that Frank was . . .”

“Ah.”

“But I do not remember any of it.”

“Considering what you’ve been through,” she says, “a good memory would be unpardonable.”

I cannot help but smile at this quote from my favorite book.

“But you’re sure it’s true?” she says.

“I have no reason to doubt their word. Yet he is so very kind and”—I give her a wry smile—“one does not know what to think.”

“So why don’t you just ask him why he lied?”

The idea of confronting Wes is so unthinkable, so contrary to everything I have ever been taught about social intercourse, that I cannot even respond. Yet here I am, having only just made Deepa’s acquaintance—though she says we have met before—and I cannot help but marvel at how easily I unburdened myself to her about my supposed past with Wes and Frank. I have never before been so unguarded with anyone of my acquaintance. Even Mary, whom I regard as a sister, never heard a word of what had passed between Edgeworth and me. Not that I had any mistrust of her; quite the contrary. It simply never occurred to me to speak of such things to her. The fact that she was his sister was an added obstacle, but in truth I would have kept silent even were she not his relation.

As for Wes, I hardly know the gentleman; questioning him about the past would be an impertinent freedom. And he has been so kind to me that I want to believe he is honorable. He must have had his reasons for doing what he did. Besides, this is not my life. If I do not remember Courtney’s history—save that memory of Frank, if that is indeed what it was and not some wild fancy—then how real is it to me?

I meet Deepa’s eyes. “That is out of the question.”

“Okay then,” she says, opening her reticule and taking out a comb, which she runs through her glossy black hair. “Then how about this for an idea? Something to take your mind off those two. Come with me to the club. A little music, a little dancing, a change of scenery—I promise you it will be excessively diverting.”

She winks at me, and my heart lightens. A dance. I wonder what a ball would be like in this strange land. “I am much obliged to you for your kindness, but I am hardly dressed for a dance.” I regard the white trousers and sheer white bodice over the pale pink one that I have been wearing all day.

“Nonsense. You look gorgeous.”

Deepa rummages in her brown spangled reticule. “All you need is a little lipstick.” She produces a shiny silver tube, which she uncaps and twists to reveal a cone of a sparkly pink substance. Without further ado, she applies the pink substance to my lips. She is so close that I can smell peppermint on her breath and a sweet floral perfume on her skin. Her eyelashes are thick and black and curled; now that I think of it, I have noticed similar eyelashes on Paula and Anna; I believe it is the effect of some sort of cosmetic.

“And some mascara,” she says, producing a longer tube that is dark blue with a golden cap. She unscrews it, and the cap is a wand with a bristly spiral at one end, coated with a black viscous substance. “Look off to your right. That’s it; don’t close your eyes.” And she’s applying the bristles to my eyelashes. She surveys her work and smiles broadly, revealing a dimple in one cheek.
“Regard. Tu es très belle.”

Sure enough, I do look pretty. Or at least the blond, dark-lashed woman staring back at me with shiny, sparkly pink lips does.

Eleven

W
hen Deepa and I emerge from the public house into the fresh air, I am suddenly sensible of how strong was the drink I had. No wonder, as I have had almost nothing to eat since breakfast.

Her car is sleek and black and shiny, and the first thing I notice when I take my seat is a picture of what appears to be a Hindu goddess in a stand before the front glass.

“You are from India?” I ask, hoping my question is not impertinent.

Deepa glides her car smoothly into the illuminated street. “My grandparents came from India. But my parents were born in London, as was I. I am now, however, as American as you.”

American? I, an American. That is diverting.

“My parents still haven’t come to terms with it. They’re very English, you know. And these barbaric Americans will never live up to their standards. No offense,” she says, smiling.

“There is none, I can assure you.”

We arrive at a place that must indeed be the public assembly where the dance is to be held; there are young people clustered in groups outside the building, men and women talking, laughing, and smoking thin white tubes of tobacco—the women smoking as well as the men. Shocking indeed, yet the smell of the smoke is almost intoxicating. I find myself slowing down to take in the scent and even imagining myself smoking. Except that I would never do such a thing. How very odd.

None of the ladies or gentlemen is dressed for a ball, which I half expected to be the situation when Deepa insisted that my own attire was not improper. Nevertheless, it is shocking indeed to imagine a ball where women are in trousers or tiny skirts, bare-legged and most with wholly bare arms, and where the men are still without coats and neckcloths. The only indication that this is an evening party is in the abundance of spangled and glittery trimmings on many of the women’s bodices; indeed, some of them are fashioned wholly of shiny or glittery stuff. And there is an abundance of sparkling jewelry.