His and Hers Page 11

  "Mrs. Hathaway, Anne," he acknowledged. Then he bathed Jane in the warmth of his approving smile. "Jane. May I dare to hope that you will once again play for us this evening?"

  "It would be my pleasure, sir."

  "Then it is decided."

  At least something was.

  Jane took advantage of a lull in Mary's writing to go for a walk with her younger sister. It felt good to be outside again, drinking in the sweet air and letting the occasional sunlight brush its warmth across her forehead.

  She may not be able to pull on a pair of comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, but at least she had managed to leave the ever-present lace cap thing in her room. Next, she planned to see what she could do about the corset that tortured her nonstop. A smaller waistline was not worth it. At all.

  She and Anne walked together companionably, along a path that led past the gardens and along the back of the house. "So when are you to have your… coming out?" Jane asked. She was pretty sure that's what it was called, anyway.

  Anne looked at her in surprise. "You know, Sister, that it is to be one year hence."

  "Of course," she agreed. "I do, but I had forgotten. So this is sort of a scouting trip? I suppose the Dempseys might invite eligible men to dinner for you."

  The girl turned to her in bewilderment. "Your manner of speaking is most—"

  "I know," Jane hastened to say. "Unusual. I'm, uh… based on an American friend of the author's. So when she's not writing, I'm… Well, you'll get used to it."

  Anne looked doubtful for a moment but then nodded. The good thing about being young, Jane reflected, was that it came with a certain amount of being able to accept things on the surface. Not question them too deeply.

  "I know you're my sister, but there are some things the author hasn't filled me in on. What"—Jane paused to think how to phrase the question in a way the girl would be more accustomed to hearing—"activities do you enjoy, Anne?"

  The girl kicked a small pebble in the path, once and then twice. One quick scrutiny assured Jane it wasn't the one she was looking for. "I am fond of reading," Anne said. "Not fond of the pianoforte nor the embroidery that our mother insists I undertake. She knows how tiresome I think it, yet she pays no heed." Her voice rose to mimic what Jane presumed to be their mother's. "'An accomplished lady, Anne, must endeavor to make herself useful.'" She sighed, heavily and with no small amount of drama. "As if playing a song could somehow alter life itself."

  Jane grinned. Spoken like someone who had never had a rock song ingrained into her memory for all time. She looked closer at the girl, noting the profile of a nose a bit too large, a chin a Little too receding, freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and hair determined to burst from its restraints. Anne seemed to spring forward as she walked, something like a terrier Jane had once known. A far cry from the dainty, restrained steps Mary forced on Jane. "And what else do you enjoy?" she asked. A person with this much energy had to channel it somewhere.

  "Stories."

  "Stories? Writing them?"

  Anne nodded. "When my pen meets paper, it is as though all else ceases to exist" Then she ducked her head, looking embarrassed, as though she wasn't sure how the admission would be received.

  A niggling suspicion began to steal over Jane. Could Anne, she wondered, actually be Mary, in character as a younger girl, before the disappointments of a suitor who chose someone else? Jane could see Anne accused of being less than pious in a few years. Mrs. Hathaway had said as much now.

  Interesting. "I think that's wonderful," Jane said carefully. "That's a talent you should nurture."

  Anne darted a look over at her and then away, the hint of a smile playing at her mouth. "It is not the limit of my accomplishments."

  "What else?"

  Without warning, Anne moved off the path to a clearing of grass nearby. Jane followed her, curious.

  Anne shot her arms in the air and hopped up on one leg, turning what looked to be a perfect cartwheel, though the tangle of her skirts obscured much of it She emerged, flushed and grinning, hands still in the air.

  Jane broke into applause, to the apparent surprise of Anne, who seemed to have expected shock and maybe a scolding. Ha. It's going to take a lot more than that to shock me, Sister.

  The girl brushed her hair back from her face, clearly pleased.

  "Very nice," Jane said. "But can you do this?" Hands on her hips, she looked behind her to take the measure of the ground, hiked up her skirts and called on the inner cheerleader she knew still lurked inside somewhere. Then she put her arms up and prepared to launch into her trademark three-rotation backflip. Ow. She hadn't quite bent over when the corset practically cut her in half. Stupid thing. She pulled herself back, stumbling to catch her balance.

  "Jane?"

  "I'm fine. No problem. Just—give me a minute." She looked around. Over there, not far away, a grove of trees. Could she… ?

  Never mind whether she could or could not. She would.

  She walked quickly to the trees, ducking behind a particularly leafy one.

  "What are you doing?" called Anne.

  Jane raised her voice only enough to be heard by her sister. "Just getting rid of something. Keep an eye out for me, okay? Make sure no one is coming." Her last words were muffled as she ducked her chin and reached behind her to try and undo the dress. After a few fruitless tries, she gave up. She'd never be able to do this by herself. Victorian dressmakers had apparently seen to that. "Anne! Come here, I need you."

  The girl came swiftly to her side.

  "Help me get out of this, please. I have to get this corset off before it kills me. Literally."

  Anne's eyes were doubtful. "But your dress… ?"

  "I know. It might not fit. We'll just have to make it work."

  With Anne's help, the dress and the corset came off, leaving Jane in the odd chemise and drawers that served as underclothing. "Quick," she urged the girl. "Get me back into this dress." No one else had come along or she would have had them both dive for cover.

  It wasn't easy, fitting Jane back into the dress. The corset apparently took an inch or two off her waist. Luckily, the dress was cut such that she was able to squeeze into it with Anne's help.

  "There," Jane pronounced, hands on her hips. "Much better."

  Anne held up the corset. "What shall we do with this?"

  "Leave it on the ground. Maybe wild animals will drag it away. Use it for a nest."

  The younger girl held her hand over her mouth as a giggle turned into a full laugh.

  "Now," said Jane. "I'll show you what I can do."

  Back into position in the clearing, her hands in the air. And… launch. It felt good sailing through the air again with carefree abandon, even if her skirts did cause a big problem with her flexibility and the now-tight waist of her dress didn't want to give an inch.

  One flip, whoa… skirts over the head. Heavy skirts. Keep going. Two flips… She hadn't let herself do this since college, when she'd caused that huge fiasco at the basketball game. The basketball star with all the promise had never made it to the NBA. She'd always secretly feared it was her fault. Humiliation, she could take. But causing someone else to lose their dream? That, she couldn't take. And… threeeee flips. Except that, on her way down, she caught those skirts she'd managed mostly to avoid on the first two and ended up with them over her head, pinning her to the ground, her backside sticking straight up in the air.

  "Oh!" She heard Anne's muffled squeal and felt footsteps rushing toward her. Anne's hands pushed and pulled at the unwieldy fabric at the same time Jane's did, until Jane finally managed to sit back on the ground and claw her way to the surface, flushed and laughing.

  Anne's eyes had lit up and she was giggling uncontrollably, placing her hands on Jane's shoulders. "Oh, Sister, that was so very—however did you do it? You must teach me. At once!"

  "I daresay there are other things you should seek to learn, young Anne," said a voice from above. A male voice, deep and terse. Sounding as tho
ugh he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Jane squeezed her eyes shut and then mustered her courage enough to look up and meet the shocked stare of James Dempsey.

  "At least…" she attempted, "I'm no longer crippled?"

  He didn't laugh.

  But Anne did.

  Chapter 10

  By the time the servant arrived to help her dress for dinner, Jane decided she'd had enough of allowing Real Jane to show up. This was her life and all she'd ever done on her own was mess it up. She had a chance, one chance, to get it right, through someone else calling the shots. She was taking it.

  Besides—and she didn't want to allow herself much rime to think about this—without that stone, she might be stuck here for good. In a story where, if she didn't marry the handsome master of Afton House, she could end up a pitied spinster, shoulders bent with the weight of broken dreams, like Violet. Dependent on the goodwill of her brother. Did Book Jane even have a brother? She had no idea.

  And how would she support herself? Women without family money or husbands in this age were servants or— or—governesses. She'd never been around children much and that was probably a fairly necessary qualification for the job. And if her piety had to be put to a test, might as well say right now that she'd fail miserably.

  Okay, then. Not much choice but to suck it up and go along. Strap the corset back on, in more ways than one, and be cooperative. Influence Mary where she could without wreaking havoc. Don't think. Just cooperate. Effort, Jane, effort. She slapped her palm, startling the servant who carried her dress.

  "Sorr—" She drew in a breath. "Please. Forgive me." Time for this Victorian woman to begin acting like one.

  The servant, a different pale, skittish girl with her dark hair scraped into a white cap, bobbed a half curtsy, nearly dropping the dress. "Miss."

  "Allow me." Jane took it from her and spread it on the bed. This time, the fabric was a pale yellow, sprigged with rows of white lace. It was pretty, in a dress up, doll kind of way. And maybe that was exactly what she was supposed to be. She closed her eyes and waited, hands on her hips. The picture of a lady.

  She could still do what she and Curran had talked about. But without giving it her own Jane-like take that never worked. For anyone.

  When at last she was dressed, she smoothed the fabric with her hands, held her chin high and took small, deliberate steps toward the door.

  "Beautiful, miss," said the maid, in a tiny squeak of a voice.

  "Thank you." This wasn't so hard. She could do it, even when Mary wasn't writing. She opened the door carefully and made it through without bumping either side. Small victories. They counted.

  She could be on her way to a coordinated life.

  When Mary began writing, Jane was once again seated at the dining table in a room awash with the dancing glow of candlelight, from sconces on the wall to extravagant candelabras. Flowers graced the long table in large urns. Mary apparently liked setting scenes at dinner. Maybe the woman was fixated on food.

  There was plenty of it on Jane's plate, slid silently in front of her by a servant who then stepped away. Jane only glanced at it as she lifted her fork to take a dainty bite and then turned her attention to James, seated on her left at the head of the table.

  There seemed to be a difference in his approving look this time, a hesitation that hadn't been there before. Great. Mary may not have written in the backflip, but James knew it had happened. He'd been there to see Jane's Victorian underwear flashing the sky on that third rotation. He probably now doubted her suitability as a wife, which would definitely not help in moving along a romance.

  She had to get through to him that she had reformed. That the earlier incident had been a temporary lapse. That it wouldn't happen again, if she had to duct tape Real Jane and fold her into a carriage bound for London.

  She would listen carefully to the words Mary wrote for her. Put her heart, her whole being behind them. Provide subtle hints, suggestions even, but only in a Victorian-appropriate way. She would help the author develop this book into something wonderful. Yes, she would.

  "Miss Ellingson has agreed to again play for us this evening," James announced to those seated nearest them. "We await hearing her with much anticipation."

  "Indeed," nodded Mrs. Hathaway. "For our Jane plays with the touch of an angel, does she not?" She beamed at Jane. "Would that she could stay here and play for you every evening, Mr. Dempsey."

  And that would happen by way of… ? At least the woman seemed to get away with her blatant matchmaking. James gave a polite nod.

  "My sister is a woman of many accomplishments," contributed Anne.

  As Jane slowly, gracefully turned to her sister, she felt a jolt of panic. Anne couldn't be talking about the back-flips, could she? What if—What if Mary decided the heroine of this story had some sort of mental defect that resulted in her performing gymnastic stunts and… Mary wrote her out, sending her off to a mental institution, in favor of someone else? One of these other women, maybe. Jane couldn't get her head free enough to look at them, but she knew they were there, dressed in beautiful silk dresses with their hair up and gracious smiles fixed in place.

  "My sister, I fear, is not impartial," she murmured. "And she is quite unwilling to talk about her own accomplishments."

  "Which her older sister raises only as a sign of her own generous heart," pronounced Mrs. Hathaway.

  Was the woman earning a commission from brokering this marriage?

  Jane swallowed another bite of virtually tasteless food. A vegetable of some kind, cooked until every vitamin had to have been eliminated. Good thing she didn't feel all that hungry. Either Mary was writing her with a full stomach or the corset remolding her ribs didn't allow enough room for food. But she could get used to the thing. She could.

  "Have you your dress for the ball, Miss Ellingson?" whispered a female voice next to her.

  Jane turned to see a young, heart-shaped face framed by glossy brown ringlets. "Yes, Miss Ashby. And you?"

  "Mama was quite beside herself. The dressmaker fell ill at a most inopportune time, when my dress was not yet done by half." Miss Ashby's eyes widened with the drama of it all.

  If this was the worst problem the woman ever had, she'd live a charmed life. But Jane heard herself reply, "How vexing. Whatever did you do?"

  "We arranged for another dressmaker and the gown is now finished. No thanks to the first. What could she have been thinking?"

  Jane pictured an impoverished dressmaker, lying on her sickbed barely able to move, lamenting the money she would not earn because Pampered Ringlets couldn't imagine what she was doing having the nerve to become ill. Never mind, she told herself. You can't march in and change things here. Just go along with Mary's words.

  But Miss Ashby was already rushing ahead, without waiting for a response. "Oh, it is the most beautiful gown I have ever seen," she gushed. "Tulle over layers of pink satin. And the lace," she breathed. "It is spectacular."

  Mary had Book Jane say something bland in reply, but Real Jane wasn't quite listening. James had turned to Mr. Stonewalter and begun a low-voiced discussion of recent expansions of the right to vote. Mention of the Chartists hurtled her straight back to a college English history class. Fascinating. Reforms in England were happening right now, not in a textbook.

  "It is preposterous," said James. "Any man with a household income of ten pounds granted a vote."

  "Beyond belief," Stonewalter grumbled in reply. "Such a person has not the most basic understanding of what is to be discussed in Parliament. The decisions that are to be made. Mark my words. It is the end of all rational thinking."

  Right, thought Jane. What would happen next? Giving women the right to vote? Just think of the implications.

  Stonewalter's voice dropped even lower. "Next they will propose that females vote."

  Both men chortled at the absurdity.

  Jane longed to turn, to lean forward and join in this conversation. Hello? Little did they know that Britain's firs
t female prime minister would be along in a mere hundred years or so, and Jane herself had been elected freshman-class president in high school and had voted in every single election since she'd turned eighteen—

  "Miss Ellingson?" Ringlet Girl asked. Her tone had a knife's edge to it.

  Jane could have sworn she'd been talking back in some form of shadow conversation, hadn't she?

  "We were speaking of your gown," Miss Ashby prompted.

  Jane opened her mouth. Nothing.

  She tried again, to no avail. A second later, all at the table froze, the man on the other side of Miss Ashby in the midst of lifting a forkful of food to his mouth. Then the invisible hand lifted and Jane's shoulders sagged. She glanced at James, but she couldn't read his expression.

  Jane ventured, "Has she tired?" She moved one hand to the back of her chair, fingers crossed. This would not be a good time for James to find out she hadn't been cooperating, had let her attention wander. His patience, she strongly suspected, was more than a little worn.

  He didn't answer at first, pressing both of his palms flat on the table and surveying the assembled group. At last he said, "All prepare."

  Ummm… What?

  A moment later she had her answer, finding herself at the pianoforte, playing before a group that looked to include all those who had just been at dinner. As though nothing else had just happened. As though she hadn't gone from the table to the drawing room, without a single footstep.

  A ripple of apprehension began in Jane's stomach and made its way through the rest of her at lightning speed. Curran had tried to warn her about this. The woman who wielded the pen also wielded the ability to stop, start, erase. Obliterate lives.

  There was a huge price to be paid for causing trouble. When would she learn? Mentally, she thumped her forehead, even as her fingers continued to dance across the keys.