Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (26 page)

But I have not leisure to revolve such points in my mind, as I am coming up on a cluster of young men on the pavement, and they are all staring at me in a most disconcerting manner. One of them whispers to the other, and they laugh. All of them are wearing low-slung breeches which are far too big for them, some with billowing white short-sleeved shirts without collars, others bare-chested. By now I have become a bit more accustomed to a seemingly endless variety of outlandish dress. However, what puts me on my guard are their mocking, appraising eyes.

Now one of them whistles, and the others laugh.

I cross the street as quickly as I can without breaking into a run, mustering as much dignity as I can and willing myself not to look in their direction.

“Ow baby,” a voice calls out.

I nearly trip over some trash in the street.

Laughter.

I continue walking, my heart pounding in my chest. Just as I turn the corner, I sneak a look at the clutch of young men; not one of them has followed me.

It is then that I let out a breath.

I suppose they are just young men, boys more like, showing off. Still, I cannot help but think that had I been in my own village, in my own time, no farmer’s son or cottager’s boy would have dared do more than tug a forelock or doff a cap in my direction.

Could my lone presence in the street have been a silent invitation to their impertinence? Perhaps it is unwise for me to be walking alone at dusk in this city. Perhaps I should have heeded Frank’s words. Perhaps there are limitations after all upon a lady’s freedom. Or perhaps it is simply a matter of prudence.

How could I be so stupid? I quicken my steps, glancing around me in the darkening street for anyone who might be construed as a threat. By the time I put my key in the lock of my apartment door, I am slick with sweat and panting from my exertions. I practically fall through the door, locking it behind me, peeling off garments and turning on the air conditioner—bless you, Wes—as I make my way to the shower and step under a heavenly spray of cold, clean water.

How lovely to be fresh and cool and safe in my very own apartment. I shall spend the rest of the evening finishing
Mansfield Park
(never has a story kept me in more suspense) and then starting
Northanger Abbey
, now that I’ve finished viewing
my
movie, which was lovely indeed. The visual splendor of it gave me a little taste of home—aside, that is, from the oddity of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s daytime display of bosom (even odder that no one around her seemed to take note of it) and Mr. Darcy’s lack of gloves while dancing. But I suppose I can forgive such lapses of fashion in a film which was created in a world where tiny strips of fabric are considered adequate for sea-bathing and where no one wears gloves at all.

As if in response to my thoughts about the film, the music from it issues from my phone. It’s Wes! I endeavor to calm myself before answering. How lovely to hear his voice.

“So, you okay at the café?” he asks. “Not too bad, I hope?”

“Actually, I’m quite content. It’s lovely.”

“Really?”

“Upon my honor.”

I can hear the relief in his voice. “Then at least I won’t have to worry about you while I’m out of town. I have to take off for a couple of days. Work thing.”

“Oh.” Somehow the thought of Wes not here, even for a couple of days, leaves me with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

What a silly creature I am.

“I don’t have to worry about you, do I?” he says.

Best not to mention my little adventure walking home tonight.

“But you can always reach me on my cell,” he says. “Or email.”

“Of course.” I force some cheer into my voice. “I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.”

“I don’t know how pleasant it’ll be; I’ll be lucky if I work less than sixteen hours out of twenty-four. But thanks.”

And then, we say our good-byes, and no sooner do I end the call than there is another, no name, just a number on the phone, and when I answer it, a familiar voice says, “Finally. I thought I was going to have to show up at your door.”

It’s Frank.

“I keep thinking about that night at The Fortune Bar,” he says. “When we kissed. And how good you tasted.”

His words are like a caress, and there is a fluttering in my stomach.

“You have no idea how much I wanted to kiss you again the other night,” he says. “But then you ran away.”

My heart is quickening. Why does this man have such an effect on me?

“Courtney? Are you there?”

“Yes, I—I’m here.”

“I miss you.”

“What is it you want from me, Frank?”

“You know what I want. And I think you want it, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Courtney, I want to be with you.”

Why does a part of me thrill to hear those words?

“And?”

“Let me come over,” he says, “and show you how much I mean it.”

He is just as he was the other night. All he wants is to get into my bed.

“What makes you think I hold myself so cheap?”

“Is it Wes? Is that why you’re holding out on me?”

And in that moment, it is clear that his pursuit of me has everything to do with his rivalry with Wes and nothing to do with his affections for me.

And with that clarity, I am free.

“Because if it is, you should know that Mr. Perfect’s got some business on the side.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why don’t you ask him? Unless you’re afraid to find out.”

“I do not suffer such a tone from my own father, let alone from a person who is of no connection to me.”

“Since when do you talk to your father? And what do you mean by no connection? That’s cold, Courtney.”

“Good-bye, Frank.”

“You’re not serious. You were into that kiss.”

He’s insufferable. “Do not call me again.”

And I end the call.

If there is work for me to do in Courtney’s life, then it is clear that banishing Frank from it once and for all is the greatest service I could do her. Nevertheless, it takes some time before I can calm myself enough to lie down and read, let alone shake the unsettling feeling that the meaning of Frank’s cryptic statement about Wes might be something I would rather not know.

Twenty-three

“Y
ou’re not serious, Courtney,” says Paula’s voice from the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear.

I am bustling about the apartment the following morning, getting ready for my second day of work at the café.

“I don’t understand,” I say, searching through the clothes in my closet for something appropriate to wear, preferably something which might withstand coffee spills.

“Making coffee? Talk about a dead-end job.”

Dead end. Must look that one up. But the sound of it doesn’t promise well.

Paula raves on. I press “speaker,” another ingenious invention, and place the phone on the bed while I fasten my trousers.

“And this is Wes’s idea,” she huffs. “Figures. His family’s got so much money, he doesn’t have to worry about how much he makes. But how are you going to live on it?”

Wes? From a wealthy family? And to think I took him for a servant when first we met.

“Courtney? Are you listening to me?”

“I’ll manage, Paula. It will hold me over till I find something more suitable.”

“Come on, Courtney. I cannot imagine you serving coffee without spilling it in someone’s lap.” Paula giggles. “On purpose, that is. You’re just not the servile type.”

“I cannot imagine anyone less servile than Sharon,” I say, but I can feel myself on the verge of saying something else which I will likely regret.

“Who’s Sharon?”

“The young woman who is training me. Forgive me, Paula, but I must get ready.”

Of all the impertinent . . . oh, blast it all, why should Paula’s opinions be of any consequence to me? And did not Deepa, who called me shortly before Paula did, congratulate me on my new job? She had nothing but kind words and encouragement to offer. Nevertheless, I stamp about the apartment as I put the last of my ensemble together, then remember my promise to Vladimir and will myself to form more ladylike steps.

It takes a brisk walk in the blessedly cooler air of the morning to cool the heat of my anger. I am not quite ready to try my hand at driving the car again; for now, I shall depend on Sharon’s kindness for a ride home at night and hope that I am as safe in the daytime streets as I believe I am. I keep a watchful eye on my surroundings, but I cannot stop thinking about Paula’s words.

Of course I simply had to Google “dead-end job” on the computer before I left the house. In truth, I care not whether a job provides me with advancement; what a notion. I, who before arriving in this world could choose only between the job of marriage or maiden aunt, the latter of which would be a disappointment indeed to my family but not nearly as degrading as being forced to go out as a governess, should I have been so unfortunate as to be born into a genteel yet necessitous family.

No, I do not mind at all having a job that affords no advancement.

But servile? That is a disagreeable word indeed, and one I cannot easily banish from my thoughts. Paula was rather high-handed, to be sure, but she is my friend. And she is a woman, and thus has a woman’s feelings. Did she, in truth, do anything more than echo my own doubts? Was I wrong, after all, to have accepted the job?

No, it cannot be wrong. It was Wes’s idea that I take the job. Wes, who is goodness itself, despite what I found in Courtney’s journal, despite what Paula and Anna have said, despite Frank’s insinuations—

Deepa, who is my friend, likes him very well indeed, does she not?

No, if Wes has recommended this job, it cannot be wrong. Wes, who desired me to work for him but, out of delicacy for my feelings, found me another position. Wes, who has been nothing but generous and kind and solicitous of my comfort in all things. Wes, who according to Deepa has feelings for me that are—I can feel the blush starting at my neck. Oh how I long to ask him about the past, not only about his role in Frank’s deception, but also to learn if he knows the extent of Courtney’s—of my—former intimacy with Frank. But I dare not; it is too awkward by half to contemplate such a thing.

Oh, dear. I cannot enter my place of work with such a disordered mind. I shall think of something else. And indeed there is much to occupy the mind and eye in these streets teeming with cars exuding smoke, and snatches of music from open windows, and people of various hues and outlandish dress, and shops selling I don’t know what. And thus by the time I arrive at Home—how I love the name of the café—I am truly composed in spirit as well as countenance.

Perhaps I am a little like Catherine Morland of
Northanger Abbey,
a green girl from the country having her first adventure in the great city of Bath. Perhaps I do not yet know what is expected of me in every situation in this land, but I will not let Paula persuade me to do what I know would be wrong. And as Fanny Price said so eloquently in
Mansfield Park, We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.

Besides, I promised Wes that I would accept the position, and I promised to give proper notice at such time when I am ready to leave it. I shall not go back on my promises. Besides, I do not wish to leave my position. For now, it suits me very well indeed.

T
he café is bustling, and Sharon reminds me that it is time for my break. I can hardly believe that four hours have passed, and much more pleasantly than I would have imagined.

Just as I am about to carry my cup of coffee to a brightly covered, red-and-yellow cushioned chair near the window, I sense that I am being stared at. I look up and see a petite young woman who has just entered the café frozen, as if in mid-stride, and staring at me. At first I cannot believe that I am the object of her gaze. Yet when I glance behind me, I see that Sharon is at the other end of the counter, and there is no one else in the vicinity. I look at the lady questioningly, and she seems to recollect herself, resuming her stride towards the counter.

I am strangely unsettled, not only by her staring, but by something eerily familiar about her face, and thus I move as quickly as I can out of her path. I settle into the chair by the window and busy myself to avoid looking in her direction. But I cannot help myself, so great is my curiosity to look at her again.

And then I remember where I saw her before: She is the same woman who was staring at me in Awakening as I stood in the gallery, speaking with Wes and Deepa, though she was farther away than she is now. I study her features as she orders her coffee. She is quite pretty, in a style of beauty which is all her own. Her face is heart-shaped. Her large eyes tilt upward at the outside corners. She has a tiny nose, dimpled cheeks, and a wide, girlish mouth.

And then she looks up at me, full in the face, and resumes her staring from across the café. If she and I are acquainted, which we must be or why would she look at me so, then why does she not greet me in a proper manner? It is most unsettling. I occupy myself by watching Sharon, who glides over to the table next to mine, tray in hand, and collects empty cups and plates.

When Sharon returns to the counter, I decide to give my full attention to my coffee and a newspaper which is lying on the table. And sure enough, something much more interesting than the staring young woman captures my attention: a story about the first African American president of the United States. That such a thing should ever be possible, and that I should be alive to see it, something I’ll vow not even William Wilberforce or Thomas Clarkson ever dreamt of.

“Think she fancies you, too?” says a distinctive voice and accent behind me. I turn; it is Deepa.

I rise and kiss her on both cheeks. “What a delightful surprise.”

She smiles. “I had to stop by and see your new work digs, but the first thing I noticed was her.” She inclines her head slightly towards the mysterious woman, who is leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink and gazing at me steadily.