Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict

244 Pages·2008·0.95 MB·English

by  Laurie Viera Rigler

Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict
Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict
A Novel
LAURIE VIERA RIGLER
DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,
England Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © 2007 by Laurie Viera Rigler
All rights reserved REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA
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ISBN: 1-4295-6031-2
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or
locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this
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I dedicate this book to Austen addicts past, present, and future; and most of all,
to Jane Austen, whose bit of ivory is an endless source of wisdom and joy for
this humble admirer. If there is any justice in the world, Miss Austen, then there
is a parallel reality in which that lovely young man from the seaside didn’t die
young, you lived to write at least six more novels, and the two of you grew
happily old together, preferably without children.
Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict
Till this moment, In ever knew myself.
—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Acknowledgments
One
W hy is it so dark in here? And that smell, like dried lavender mixed with
ammonia.
A door thrown open, curtains thrust aside noisily. I squint in the harsh light. A
stout woman with black hair in a messy upsweep unlatches a window while a
scowling older man hisses orders. The woman ducks her head and shrinks into
her shoulders, as if to hide from the man’s voice.
Who are these people? And what’s with those outfits?
The woman’s dress is long and drab with a large white apron, down to the floor.
The man’s suit and vest look like cast-offs from the Merchant-Ivory costume
department. Even his glasses are vintage.
But that’s the least of it. This is clearly not my room.
My nose wrinkles at the ripe smell of unwashed body, and I realize that the man
and the woman are standing at the foot of my bed staring at me. Am I the source
of that smell? Is that why they’re looking at me?
Apparently, I am having a dream, and a highly olfactory one at that. Strange,
though. I can’t recall ever having been aware of dreaming during the dream
itself. Lucid dreaming, that’s what Frank called it. Claimed he used to have them
all the time when he was seeing some Jungian therapist.
Why are they looking at me like that?
“Miss Mansfield? Are you awake?”
It’s the man who’s speaking to me, moving toward the bed as he does. I can now
connect the stench with its source. His face has the bulging-eyed look of a trout
surprised to find itself attached to a hook. I stifle a giggle.
“Miss Mansfield,” he says again. “Can you hear me?”
Miss Mansfield. That’s a good one. Especially the British accent. That’s what I
get for being such a Jane Austen addict. No wonder some bipedal trout in a
dream is calling me something that could be right out of an Austen novel—
though last night I fell asleep reading Pride and Prejudice, not Mansfield Park.
“Miss Mansfield?”
Should I answer? No need to be polite. After all, it’s my dream, isn’t it? He’s just
some cryptic symbol. Of what, however, I have no idea. He does look really
worried, though, poor guy. Perhaps he’s a symbol of some subconscious desire I
have to be more tolerant of people with poor personal hygiene.
“Miss Mansfield. Can you hear me?”
“Why are you calling me that?” I finally say.
He gasps, his bulging eyes magnified by his glasses. Perhaps I should have
played along. After all, he can’t be expected to know he’s just a construction of
my subconscious mind. Should I be the one to break the news?
He backs up from the bed, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket and wiping his
sweaty upper lip.
“Barnes,” he says to the one with the apron, “tell your mistress that Miss
Mansfield has opened her eyes. Inform her that I will be with her shortly.”
“Very good, sir,” says the woman, with an unmistakable note of relief in her
voice, and closes the door.
I lie under the covers and observe while the man, who is evidently a doctor, feels
my pulse, touches my cheek and forehead, and frowns. Then he opens a brown
leather satchel and takes out a china bowl that’s kind of like a soup bowl except
that it looks like someone took a big bite out of its edge. Next he opens a little
leather case with some sharp instruments in it, then gives me a sort of half grin
with his blubbery fish lips.
“I shall be back in just a few minutes, Miss Mansfield. A little bleeding will be
just the thing.”
I remember that Frank once said lucid dreams have a decided advantage over
regular dreams. If a lucid dream becomes unpleasant, all you have to do is say
what you want out loud or take some kind of definitive action and proclaim your