His and Hers Read online

  Jane pried open one eye and then the other. Snapped them shut and opened them again. She was in some sort of moving carriage. The seat squeaked beneath her as she looked down at the clothing that felt soft, and unfamiliar against her skin. Blue silk, covering her from neck to ankles. The skirts were voluminous, with rows of fabric edged in lace. She was wearing some sort of long jacket over the dress. The jacket had tight upper sleeves that were bell shaped at the end, with more lace. Lots of it. What the—? She'd been wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that fit perfectly, with a pink tank top under her white gauze shirt. And flip-flops. Not an explosion of silk.

  She put a hand up to touch her hair and realized that a hat sat firmly on top, with long ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. How bizarre. Had she wished herself right into a theatre piece?

  As the carriage slowed to a stop, Jane's chin lifted and her shoulders drew up straight and back… all by themselves, as though someone was pulling invisible strings while she sat back, an interested observer. Weird. Really weird. And the door. It was opening, inches from where she sat. She watched, fascinated, as a gloved hand reached inside.

  "Miss Ellingson," said a man in perfect, cultured British tones. "Welcome to Afton House. This is indeed a delight."

  A delight Not a shock, a surprise or a bolt from Heaven. A delight.

  He knew her name. But she didn't have any idea who he was or why he would be standing outside her horse-drawn carriage dressed like someone straight out of the nineteenth century. She opened her mouth to ask, but other words came tripping across her tongue. In a lilting British accent. "Thank you, Mr. Dempsey," she said, extending her gloved hand to take his. One foot moved forward, toward the carriage step, as her other hand grasped her skirts.

  No. Oh, no. Something that required this much coordination was sure to end in disaster. Damn. And he had a great-looking suit on, too. Too bad it was going to end up covered in mud or something worse after she'd—

  Descended. With a grace as alien to her as the funny half boots on her feet, she ended up standing on the ground after nothing more than a few delicate steps. Standing, actually, straight up. No dry cleaner's dream roll in the mud for either one of them.

  Now that was a delight.

  Her body. Had to have been possessed. That was it. By someone with coordination. Social graces. And a British accent?

  Wait. What was that? She heard herself speaking again.

  "I should like for you to meet my aunt, Mr. Dempsey." She nodded toward the carriage. "Mrs. Hathaway."

  A plump woman, whose eyes blinked so rapidly, it must have been difficult for her to see, emerged, murmuring pleasantries.

  Interesting. Her aunt. Even though both her mother and father had been only children.

  "Mrs. Hathaway. Welcome," Mr. Dempsey said with a broad smile.

  "And my sister," she heard herself continue. "Miss Anne Ellingson." One hand extended toward the carriage.

  A fresh-faced girl, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling, prepared to alight. She looked about fifteen or sixteen. Her sister? And how was it Jane knew the names of these people—and they knew hers?

  Nothing made sense here, least of all the carriage with the sour-faced driver and the let's-just-call-it-what-it-is mansion they stood before. Yet, she could not feel her face contorting in the way it usually did when confused and this Mr. Dempsey wasn't giving any indication he could see she was confused. Instead, he turned in one grand motion, crooked both arms and offered them to her and her aunt.

  They took them as though it were the most natural thing in the world and began walking toward the house, shoes crunching on the dirt, the teenaged Anne following closely behind. Jane's skirts swayed elegantly as she moved, with the confident step of someone other than herself.

  This was some… dream?

  She could feel Mr. Dempsey's warm arm beneath her gloves and his jacket. As he began speaking, she heard a giggle and tossed a look that seemed like a frown in the direction of her "sister," who quickly pulled her face straight. Wow. That seemed a little harsh to do. Nothing wrong with a giggle. Jane tried to follow with an apologetic smile, to no avail.

  Hello? Person inside here, not being allowed to do what she wanted to with her body ?

  Meanwhile, Mr. Dempsey, whoever the hell he was, had begun talking again. "My father, alas, has taken to his bed. He is once again ailing. But he insisted that nothing should deter your visit, which we have anxiously awaited these many days."

  They had awaited her visit. Anxiously, even. Very nice. To be wanted. Not something a lot of people seemed to be doing when it came to her, at least not lately.

  "Of course," Jane murmured, with perfect diction. "But I do so hope your father will recover his health soon."

  Mr. Dempsey turned toward her, rewarding the concern with a perfect smile. He was good-looking, in a chiseled, GQ sort of way, with dark blond hair and green eyes. He stood even with Jane's five foot seven inch height and walked with a confident stride, something she herself had never managed to do. Until… now. Weird.

  "Here we are," said Mr. Dempsey, ushering them through the door to the massive house, where a servant gave a deep bow.

  "I confess I have also been eager for a visit to Afton House," Jane said, with a tip of her head.

  Their eyes locked. Jane tried to look away but couldn't. Her head remained firmly in place, as though someone else held it between two hands.

  And she could swear, ninety percent for sure, that she saw an actual twinkle in his eye. It was there and then gone. A twinkle. But you only read about something like that in books. She'd never actually seen one in real life.

  A pause. And whatever had been holding her upright seemed to loosen its grip, allowing her to breathe freely for what seemed the first time in several minutes. Except that breathing freely seemed to be a relative term since something hard and unyielding on the inside of the dress seemed to be working at cross-purposes with any movement she might try to make.

  "Ah," said Mr. Dempsey, a furrow appearing between his perfect brows. "She has decided to retire. I shall take my leave." A courtly half-bow. "Until tomorrow, then."

  "Who's retiring? And who are you?" Jane blurted.

  He turned to her in surprise. "James Dempsey," he answered, in a tone that clearly said that should explain everything.

  She shook her head. "Why are you dressed that way? Better yet, why am I dressed this way?"

  He regarded her gravely for what felt like an eternity before saying, "You, Miss Ellingson, are the heroine of the book Afton House. And 1 am the hero of the tale. At your disposal." With a dip of his chin, he made it clear he awaited her joyous approval. Or possibly screams of delight, if she had any waiting to leap forward.

  Jane looked at James, then at Anne and back again. "Book," she repeated.

  "Book." As though this should all be so obvious. A vague sort of suspicion began to creep through her, beginning at her feet and moving upward until it came barreling out of her mouth. "And exactly who is the she?"

  "Our author. Miss Mary Bellingham."

  "Author."

  "We shall resume in the morning. Surely you have no expectation she will write at every hour," James replied. He made Jane sound demanding.

  "No. Of course not." Did she?

  "She is well tired today. It is such when one is undertaking the beginning of the story."

  "The beginning." She felt dim-witted, repeating everything, but she had to get this straight. "And you're saying I'm supposed to be in the story? Me. Jane Ellingson. Actual person."

  He exhaled while his eyes did a slight but unmistakable roll. "You, Jane Ellingson, are more than in the story. You are, in fact, the second most important character in the story." He gave a sweeping gesture and another gallant bow. "After me, you understand."

  Chapter 2

  Jane blinked at James. "Second most important character," she repeated.

  He rose from his deep bow to flash a killer smile. As if that were the only answer
necessary.

  Anne turned to the waiting servant and chirped, "If I may be shown to my rooms?"

  The servant dropped a hasty and deferential curtsy, murmuring something unintelligible as she led the girl away. "Good-bye, Sister," Anne said.

  Sister. Right, that was… her? Jane lifted a hand in uncertain response. Then she turned back to James, who seemed to have bits of amusement playing around the corners of his mouth. She'd had about all she could take of people writing her off. Wait… writing… her… She shook her head. "Living, breathing people do not end up in the pages of a book," she said. "Fiction is just that. Fiction. Something an author makes up." There. He'd understand now.

  One of his shoes beat out a tip-tap against the floor. "And how are we to believe an author is able to portray her characters if not for the fact that she pours her heart into their creation? They do, or, rather… We do exist, Miss Ellingson, in a world entirely of her making."

  "Her—making. Mary Bellingham."

  "The very one."

  "But I already exist." This shouldn't be so hard. Who had to argue their existence? "Mary Bellingham, whoever she is, didn't"—she bit back stronger words before adding—"make me up."

  He stilled his foot, pondering it for a moment before sweeping his gaze upward and saying, "As you wish." His green eyes held hers, making it. clear he indulged her with a heroic level of patience.

  Irritation stabbed at her. As you wish, he'd said. As though she were the one losing touch with reality here—

  Wait a minute. Oh, no. Wish. She had. In fact, she'd asked to be taken away to a place where she could start over. Somebody had heard that wish. But the somebody hadn't figured out that "away" meant a pulsating city or an island in the Caribbean, and not the pages of a book?

  "Your manner of speaking is most unusual." His forehead puckered.

  "American," she answered, while her gaze scanned the hall, looking for something, anything, to hold on to. Had she really wished herself into this place, with its elegant, polished hallway and gold fixtures? It looked real, smelled real. She took a few steps to her right, laying her hand on a table. It felt real, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.

  "American," James repeated, sounding unconvinced.

  "Yes, we—aren't British." Mary Bellingham could chime in anytime now, supplying sparkling dialogue. Jane stifled a small snort, earning a frown from James.

  Again, she let her gaze take in her surroundings. On the other hand, "playing" here, for however long the wish, or dream, whatever it was, lasted, might not be all that bad. Could the table be… ? Felt like marble.

  He motioned toward another servant, who had glided in unnoticed by Jane. "The girl will show you to your rooms, "James said. "I pray that you will rest comfortably. We are certain to have a tiring day tomorrow. I believe we are to begin at dinner."

  There was… what? Some sort of a schedule of events issued to the hero? Jane wrapped her arms hard around her waist, which felt a whole lot smaller than usual, and fanned her face with a gloved hand. She stopped, bringing her hand closer. Gloves. Of pale yellow. Who wore gloves? Then she caught sight of James's expectant face. "And so, you and I will be at the dinner," she stumbled. "Together. You're the—urn… hero?" Just to be clear.

  "Indeed." He flashed a quick grin.

  She wobbled a smile in his direction. Her hero. Too bad more men weren't actually assigned to that role. James Dempsey, hero. At your service. She wondered if he had a white steed, by any chance, and the ability to scoop up damsels in distress, unstress and kiss them passionately until—

  Wooo. Yes. Something to think about She fanned her face harder, ruffling the hair on her forehead. She'd never tried damseling, but it could be fun. This time her smile had more substance to it. "Well. Until the morrow, then." Hah. She could be as British as the next person, especially when it was all make-believe, due to disappear any minute now.

  "Until the morrow." James bestowed yet another courtly bow upon her.

  Jane tried to suck in a deep breath, stopping short when something pinched at her sides. Whatever was making her waist smaller had her breathing at half-capacity.

  James waited.

  And he was waiting for…? Oh. "Thank you, kind sir." Yes. She'd get the hang of this. A teenage love of all things Bronte was sure to pay off.

  James gave the slightest nod and Jane followed the servant, a mere slip of a teenager, through a winding hallway and up an impressive staircase, their footsteps tap-tap-tapping in synch. They passed finely appointed furniture that looked both expensive and uncomfortable. Candles flickered in sconces on walls dominated by paintings the size of one whole wall in her apartment and high ceilings gave an impression of spacious grandeur. Looked a lot like a home she'd seen profiled on the History Channel once.

  Her thoughts raced at lightning speed. A book. A story in the process of being written. Her, in it. As the heroine.

  An author, Mary Bellingham, credited with "inventing her." Jane's parents might have some trouble with that idea, since they mostly claimed that honor. And now she, Jane, was supposed to embrace the idea that someone else would decide what would happen to her, would script her life, would—

  Wait just a minute. Someone else scripting her life. Controlling what she did, what she said. Might not be an entirely bad idea. Someone who didn't have Jane's decision-making record could do a better job of it. They absolutely couldn't do any worse.

  She supposed she could hang around for a while, see what happened, if she could learn a thing or two. She still had the stone, didn't she? Her hand darted to her pockets, searching. Yes. She rubbed it between her fingers, just to be sure. There was the rough spot she remembered.

  Okay, then. She could do it. Probably. Maybe. It was an insane idea and no one would ever believe her, but sometimes you had to let go of what made sense and take a chance. She clutched the banister hard for support.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, the servant led the way down a long hall. "What's your name?" Jane asked, hurrying to keep up. This skirt, with what had to be yards and yards of fabric, wasn't the easiest to manage. It seemed to have a life of its own. She wouldn't be at all surprised to see it take off running ahead of her.

  The servant turned to look over her shoulder. "Sarah, miss."

  "Nice to meet you, Sarah."

  The girl shot her a confused look. "Yes, miss."

  "Do you know much about… uh… this story? About Mr. Dempsey?"

  "I could not say, miss." Sarah's voice was barely audible.

  "Oh. Sure," Jane said quickly. "I understand." She didn't. "Where is my sister staying?" She'd always wanted a sister. They could be best friends, share each other's secrets, trade clothes… She hoped, really hoped, the unseen Mary Bellingham would write it that way. Something like a giggle began in the small of her stomach and rose quickly. She passed a hand over her mouth.

  "Miss Anne Ellingson is next to you, miss." They came to a stop in front of a broad wooden door. Gravely, Sarah pointed to the one just beyond and then opened the door of the room apparently assigned to Jane.

  It swung open as if in slow motion. Inside she saw a four-poster bed and a dark wooden dressing table with a mirror and hairbrushes on its top. She hesitated and then walked inside the room for a closer look. A nightgown was laid out on the bed. White, high-necked and long-sleeved, with lace around the edges, it was the great-grandmother version of the camisole and panties she normally slept in. Victoria could keep any number of secrets in that thing.

  Sarah followed her, reaching up to tug at the jacket Jane wore.

  "Oh." Jane turned back and took a step away, looking at her. "You can go now."

  "But, miss—"

  "Really. I'm good. Go ahead." To prove the point, she removed her hat, which turned out to be some sort of unbearably sweet close-fitting cap kind of thing, and set it on the bed.

  The servant clasped her hands in front of her. "Good?" she repeated, as if Jane were speaking a foreign language, instead o
f perfectly acceptable English.

  "I can handle this myself," Jane said, by way of clarification. She hoped it was true.

  Sarah walked back toward the door, where she lingered for a moment, looking uncertain. Then she seemed to make a decision and bobbed another curtsy. "Miss." She went out the door, closing it behind her.

  Jane surveyed the room. Gold curtains hung from ceiling to floor, set off by wallpaper striped with red and gold. Armchairs and another small table, with books and a vase of fresh flowers, were against the other wall. The room was formal, elegant. Feminine, without being fluffy. She liked it. Not Pottery Barn but nice. Very nice.

  A servant at her disposal, a handsome man as her "hero," a sister she'd never before had, someone else writing her life… There could definitely be worse things.

  As bizarre as the whole scenario sounded, wouldn't it be something if it was true? If she really was living in the midst of a novel, with the blank pages of her life yet to be filled in and most important, a happy ending in her future?

  She'd wished for a place to start all over again. Sure, she wouldn't have dreamed of anything like this, but didn't people say that truth was stranger than fiction? Wait. In this case, would it be fiction stranger than… Never mind.

  A new beginning. It might just be weird enough to work.

  It couldn't be bedtime. Not yet Jane had no sense of the time of day and there wasn't a clock to be found anywhere in the room, but she knew, just knew, she was not ready to sleep. Her mind raced, asking questions she couldn't answer.

  Back and forth she paced until she was sure she'd begun to wear a path in the rug. A character in a novel. The heroine. She should be screaming, laughing, something, but instead she felt almost guilty at her sense of anticipation.

  Already, Mary Bellingham had given Jane a grace she'd never before known. Out of the carriage without falling flat on her face and taking James with her? Would never happen in real life. And right after that, Jane had said exactly the right thing, with manners and decorum. She'd opened her mouth and out the words came. As though she knew what she was doing.