Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (16 page)

“I’m sure I could get him to turn your last advance into severance and maybe get him to throw in another week or two. I think I can scare him into that. And a reference. But beyond that—” She shakes her head.

“You are very good.”

Thankfully, Sandra lapses into silence for the remainder of the journey home; I am too full of what has just happened to be fit for conversation. In fact, I am not even fit to think of what has come to pass with my so-called job. The speed of her car, and indeed of the other cars on the road, gives me a powerful curiosity to know how such a machine works. What mysterious force powers it? What causes the cunning illuminations which light up this city by night and day? It is impossible to be in this world and not long to know. The question, however, is how to inquire about such things without revealing a most shocking degree of ignorance.

I observe Sandra driving as well as I can; however, I am no closer to understanding what she touches with her foot to move and stop the car than I was when I watched Paula driving.

Sandra halts the car before my house, then puts her arms about my shoulders and hugs me tightly. When she releases me, her eyes are wet with tears. Though our acquaintance has spanned but a few hours, I feel a little tug at my heart. By the time she allows me to alight from her car, she has extracted a promise that I will “keep in touch” and call her if I need anything.

As soon as I settle into the sofa with
Emma
opened before me, it occurs to me, thanks to a violent protest from my stomach, that I’ve not made a decent meal since yesterday morning. Perhaps I shall rifle Courtney’s bag for money and then venture to the cook-shop next door to the public house where Frank and Wes took me. I can almost smell the scent of the exotic cookery. I hope Courtney’s bag yields money enough for a meal; I know neither the value of currency in this land nor the cost of food.

To think that I should be searching the contents of my purse to see whether I will go hungry today. At home I had only to ring the bell for Barnes or have a word with Cook, and a delicious meal would appear.

What if Sandra’s fears for me are not unfounded? Not only do I lack the smallest knowledge of what it costs to run my own household, I have not the least idea of whether my income in David’s employ was merely sufficient for those needs or more than adequate. In short, I have no idea whether I am in cash, have money in the funds, or should soon be hiding from the duns. For if Courtney has been as profligate with her money as she was with her reputation, then my prospects are sad indeed.

With no father, no brother, and no husband at hand, I have not the smallest notion of how to discover if I am indeed beforehand with the world. I am, however, determined to find it out.

I know I should neither rest nor eat until I know what I can afford, but truth be told, I am more eager to know how these miracles called cars work, and how these wonders which light up the world get their illumination, than I am to know the extent of my fortune. And I am more anxious than anything to put some food in this noisy stomach.

No sooner do I reach for my bag to find some cash than there is knocking at the door. “Courtney?”

It is Wes’s voice. There is a strange surge in my chest, as if he is my dearest friend and I am to see him again after many weeks. I know not whence this feeling comes; I only know that I am rushing to the door and opening it.

“Sorry to keep barging in like this,” he says, “but you never answer your phone, or your email, and you do still have that concussion.” He searches my face. “Court, are you okay? Is it true?”

I feel my face burn with shame. He knows that I have done much worse with Frank than allow him to kiss me.

“Is it, Courtney? Did you really quit your job?”

I practically collapse against the wall in my relief.

Silly goose. He truly does not even seem to judge me for what he saw me do last night. As for anything else he might know, well, I cannot feel quite so comfortable with such a thought, but of course he is too much the gentleman ever to remark on such a matter.

Wes takes my arm and leads me to a chair in the kitchen. “It’s gonna be okay,” he says, pouring me a glass of water. “I had a feeling you might have been stubborn enough to go in today—or sufficiently guilt-tripped into it—so I called the office. And Jay said you’d quit.”

He puts the glass in my hand. “Here, drink this down.” He sits opposite me, his eyes earnest, and puts a hand over mine. “If it’s any consolation, Jay says you’re the buzz of the office. They can’t stop talking about what a stand you made. All I can say is, it’s about time.”

I cannot help but warm to the praise. “I am happy you approve. And please do not concern yourself; I am perfectly well, I assure you. I think I am merely hungry.”

He grins. “Stay right here, and I’ll be back in a half hour or so with your favorite from Acme, okay?”

“O-kay.” I smile. That might be just enough time to finish
Emma
.

Fourteen

L
ess than an hour and a half later my mind is sated with the joyful ending of
Emma
. What a glorious book, which well deserves to be placed alongside its sisters,
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
. Though its heroine was indeed a little too well pleased with herself, that is, till her own awakening to the truth. Again I am reminded of the fortune-teller’s words. But I did so admire Em-ma’s contentment with her single state. Nothing would have tempted her from it—and did tempt her from it—but the deepest affections.

Not only am I glowing with the satisfaction of having read a most delightful novel, but my belly is comfortably full of the most delicious food I have ever tasted. Mexican food, Wes named it, and chicken mole is the name of the dish—my favorite, according to Wes, and I have no difficulty believing him.

I put down my fork after having consumed less than half the meal, the portions being as large as those in the restaurant where I breakfasted with Paula and Anna. Wes scrapes the rest into a covered dish and stores it in the refrigerator, a truly ingenious invention of this time. I can only imagine the joy of Cook if she had such a convenience in our kitchen. How she always lamented the amount of food which spoiled or which she was obliged to cook in order to avoid its spoiling.

But while the refrigerator prevents waste, I gather that one is actually expected to discard the very platter and cutlery that accompanied the meal, as Wes is doing that very thing.

“The knives and forks are flimsy, to be sure,” I venture to Wes, “but disposing of them in such a manner seems terribly wasteful.”

“Tell me about it,” he says. “The joys of living in our disposable society. I don’t know why they just throw utensils in the bag without asking first. And Styrofoam containers, no less. Do you believe anyone still uses Styrofoam? I mean, how about cardboard, guys? You’d think they never heard of global warming. Or reducing our carbon footprint. At least it’ll be recycled.”

I attempt a concerned nod to cover up my ignorance and he stops, as if catching himself, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m ranting. Your turn. You say something.”

Ah. The opening I had hoped for. “Now you mention it, there is something I wish to say to you. But it has nothing to do with the wastefulness of our meal.”

He smiles wryly. “Fair enough.”

“I wonder if you might . . . what I mean to say is, would you be so kind as to recommend how I might, well, learn how certain things work?”

“Not sure I understand.” He regards me with a questioning eye, and I resort to a small falsehood to gain my point.

“I believe that such explanations might help me regain my memory.”

“Oh,” says he. “But what do you need explained?”

I hesitate, fearing he may think me mad.

“It’s okay, Courtney. You can ask me anything.”

His manner is so encouraging and gentle that I find myself blurting out, “I do so very much wish to know how a car works.”

There. I’ve said it. And he does not look at all shocked. On the contrary, his smile is rather pleased. Perhaps he, like most of his sex, does not object to an opportunity for demonstrating his superior knowledge to an ignorant female.

“I can explain that to you pretty well,” he says, “but let’s try it the fun, do-it-yourself way. On your computer.” With that, he leads me over to the table in my bedchamber with the glowing box that is not unlike those in my former place of employment. So that is what it is called.

He seats himself to my right, and I must say his scent, which is reminiscent of lemon and freshly laundered linen that has dried in the sun, is both pleasing and distracting. I school my thoughts to focus on the rectangular screen, as he terms it, before me. He tells me to click on something called Google, which makes me giggle, but it dies quickly in a most embarrassing gasp when he puts his large, gentle hand over mine and places it on something called the mouse—causing another laugh to bubble over—and manipulates my fingers to click and point until, sure enough, the word “Google”—what a silly-sounding word—appears on the screen.

I barely hear Wes’s softly spoken instructions as to what I am to type onto the screen, I am so alive to every touch of his large, beautiful hand on mine, the pressure of it, the feel of his palm on the top of my hand, the pressure of his fingers atop mine. His hand is beautifully shaped, a sculptor’s hand. It is reshaping my hand, this hand that is not mine yet is, transforming it into—

“Courtney, you’re trembling,” he says, and leaps up to get me another glass of water. “Are you okay?” he asks, placing the glass before me.

I will my hand to steady as I pick up the glass but do not trust myself to bring it to my lips. Silly goose.

“Should I offer you something stronger?”

Why should I be so undone by a mere touch of the hand? “What happened to your admonishments last night about not mixing vodka with a concussion?”

“Since when do you ever listen to my advice?”

He is altogether too charming. I feel my face flush. “Perhaps a bit of something stronger would set me to rights.”

“I suppose a little couldn’t hurt,” he says, already reaching for the colossal bottle in the upper part of the fridge and pouring a tiny glassful, “long as you drink down all of that water with it.”

I give him what I hope is a saucy smile. “Yes, sir.” Dear me, I am a shameless flirt. But I don’t care. Do I not deserve this little taste of vodka? Have I not done a good day’s work in quitting Courtney’s unsuitable situation with that dreadful David whatever-his-name-is?

I raise the glass to my lips. “Will you join me?”

“Oh, what the hell.” He grabs another glass and pours himself a drink. “To you,” he says, and consumes the entire thing.

For my part, I shall only allow myself a ladylike sip, which is enough to spread a pleasing warmth through my bones. My hands hover over the keyboard, as Wes called the rectangular white object topped with raised alphabets and numbers. Keyboard—just like a pianoforte—and all at once my fingers move as if of their own accord. It is indeed like playing the pianoforte, for my fingers know where to go on the keyboard of this strange device as well as they know where to go on the keyboard of the instrument in my father’s house.

“See! I knew you’d remember.” Wes is jubilant.

I am even moving the mouse and clicking and pointing in a manner that reveals all sorts of heretofore hidden lists of words and pictures on the screen with just a touch of my finger. This is truly diverting. I know not how I could possibly be so proficient at playing this keyboard without any memory of ever having learnt it. I click and point, and my hands instantly summon pictures and words. Could it be that these hands will remember other things as well, things I cannot possibly know or even imagine? The very idea of it is an exciting adventure. Here I am, almost two hundred years after my own time, sitting before a machine I could never have dreamt existed, and my hands know exactly what to do.

Wes’s voice rouses me from my thoughts. “You might want to check your email. I got at least five messages from Paula and Anna complaining you’re either not checking or not answering.”

Without a thought, my right hand automatically guides the little arrow on the screen to one of a row of symbols at the bottom of the screen. I click on it, and a little rectangle appears: “56 new email messages.” Instantly, the rectangle disappears, replaced by a screenful of single lines of text that appear to represent a summary of mail delivered to me, but where are the actual letters?

Some of the names in the “From” column are unfamiliar; several are from Paula, Anna, and Wes. There are about ten from David.

“That’s a lot of mail,” says Wes. “Looks like you haven’t checked it since Friday.”

“Would you be so good as to tell me how I might fetch the letters? And their cost?”

“What?”

“Or perhaps the senders have had them franked?”

“Courtney, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Oh, sorry; I thought because you were pounding away at those keys that everything had come back. Here.” He gently removes my hand from the mouse and moves it around the table. “All you have to do is click on whichever email you’d like to read—but you don’t need to read that one,” he says, indicating the latest one with his name on it. “Just throw it in the trash.”

“I certainly shall not,” I say, directing the little arrow to the email in question—what a strange word, “email”—and clicking the mouse, causing a message of sorts to appear on the screen:

Courtney, guess I thought we’d put all that behind us. But it looks like Frank isn’t the only one you want to avoid. Can we talk?

Wes

Wes clears his throat. “Speaking of mail, there was so much of it in your mailbox downstairs that it was practically spilling onto the floor. So I brought it up and put it on the table when I picked up the food. Couldn’t help but notice you had a couple of those pink envelopes in the stack.”

“Indeed,” I say, wondering how much reassurance would be proper for me to give Wes in light of this letter.