Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life (8 page)

"Maybe Jack Smith was her back-up plan," I said, more to myself than to Adam, but he threw me a curious look.

"Her back-up plan?"

"Doesn't everybody have one? Don't you?"

"You mean somebody I've made a desperate pact with, so that neither of us ends up alone in our old age?" He rolled his eyes. "You are such a girl."

"Everybody has a back-up plan," I said, trying to keep the note of defensiveness out of my voice. "It's not that weird."

"So who's yours?" he asked.

The question hit me like a fist in the solar plexus, because since the day I married Edward, I'd never given my back-up plan another thought, until now.

"I don't ..." I didn't know what to say. "I mean ..." But what was there to say? I stepped away from Adam.

"Hey, I'm sorry." His hand was on my shoulder. He turned me toward him. "I wasn't thinking."

"It's no big--" I burst into sobs. Loud, inelegant, snot-inducing sobs.

"Em ..." He pulled me to him, and I buried my face in his shirt. Of course I didn't have a tissue or a handkerchief or anything. After all I'd been through in the last six months, you would think that I'd have learned to carry some form of tear-mopping device wherever I went. But I hadn't expected to fall apart like this. Not here. Not now. And certainly not in front of Adam.

"I'm sorry." I pushed away from him and did the best I could to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "I thought I was past that kind of meltdown."

"It hasn't been that long." He reached into his pocket and produced, of all things, a handkerchief. "Here."

"You're never going to want this back," I said, but I took it from him anyway, turned aside, and made effective--if rather noisy--use of the handkerchief.

"You're probably right," he said in rather dry tones, but I could hear the humor in his voice. "Maybe you'd better keep it."

I took a last swipe at my face and faced him again. "You're being a good sport. Sharing Anne-Elise's house. Feeding me. Driving me all the way down here."

He shook his head. "First, Anne-Elise is your cousin, not mine. I'm just an ex-boyfriend crashing in one of her spare bedrooms. Second, I have to eat, so picking up a bit extra for you isn't exactly donating a kidney."

I laughed at that. "No, but it's still nice of you."

"And third," he said, stepping toward me, "what self-respecting English professor would pass up a chance to venture into darkest Hampshire?"

We were standing close together now, just in front of the wall that divided the nave from the altar. We were standing where all the Steventon brides and grooms had stood for centuries, where Jane had, obviously, one day dreamed of standing herself.

When had she given up that dream? I wondered. Or had she ever? Did she, like me, grow up believing her father's assurance that there was a divine plan leading her somewhere special? Had she died contented with her single state, or did she still hope to find a man worthy of her vow of marriage? This question, once purely academic, now felt intensely private.

"Go to St. Nicholas Church, Steventon," Mrs. Parrot had said, "and study the page from the parish register."

But what was there to study? What else could be learned from the fictitious names of men that Jane had once conjured in a moment of whimsy? Clearly she had dreams of finding
someone to love and marry. Was that what Mrs. Parrot wanted me to see? But I'd known that already, before I'd ever set out for Steventon. What was the purpose, then, of this task?

"Are you all right?" Adam was looking at me with a discerning eye. "You're kind of pale."

"Maybe I should sit down for a minute." I stepped back and moved to the nearest pew. I slid into it and sank gratefully onto its hard surface. "I think I'm still jet-lagged." It was a better excuse than the truth--that now, given the state of my life, my connection to Jane Austen had become too intimate. "I'll just sit here for a minute. If you want to go look around the churchyard or something ..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I just need a minute alone." Even with my reassurance, he still looked reluctant to leave. "Go." I waved him toward the door.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Call me if you need me."

"I will."

A moment later, the door shut behind him, and I was left alone in the church. I reached inside my purse and pulled out the envelope Mrs. Parrot had given me. Nothing but my own honor had prevented me from opening it any earlier in violation of our agreement. If I had been in Mrs. Parrot's position, I wasn't sure I would have trusted me that far.

I split the corner of the envelope and ripped open the top. Inside was a piece of white paper. New white paper, like I had at home in my printer tray.

Disappointment ripped through me. She'd told me it was one of the undiscovered letters. Maybe I shouldn't have trusted Mrs. Parrot so easily.

I unfolded the paper and saw then that it was a photocopy. The handwriting, not to mention the signature at the bottom, left little doubt as to the author. My pulse picked up, and I held my breath as I started to read.

I scanned the contents, the very sight of the date making my heart race in my chest. The earliest known published letter had been written when she was twenty. This one was dated a full two years prior to that, when Austen was only eighteen. That fact alone made it a stunning find.

... James has written a prologue for our theatrical ...

... please do justice to my commission for a petticoat ...

... Jack has brought a fillet of beef for our father ...

Jack
. The name practically leaped from the page. I could recall no one by that name who would have made such a handsome present to the Reverend Mr. Austen.

Jack
. But it couldn't be. It was too coincidental. She'd
merely invented a name and written out the marriage in the parish register to amuse her father and shock her mother.

Hadn't she?

Jack
. It must have been a coincidence. It had to be. I studied the letter, combing it for another mention of the mystery man, but to no avail.

Mrs. Parrot had sent me to Steventon for a reason. She had instructed me to look at the page from the register and had given me the letter to read. She must have known something I didn't. She'd promised to reveal the truth about Jane Austen, but now I was more confused than ever.

I was still sitting there, clutching the letter in my hands, when Adam returned from his ramble in the church yard.

"Feeling better?" he asked, and I hardly knew how to answer.

"I'm ready to go," I said, stuffing the letter into my purse.

We left the church, carefully locking it behind us and stowing the key in the yew tree once more.

"How about some lunch?" Adam said, and I nodded in agreement.

We drove away from the church, and I glanced back for one last look.
Jack
. That simple name, that one letter, had turned the world upside down. I would always remember the church at Steventon, because I knew, somewhere in my heart, that within its protected confines, my life had been changed.

Now I had to discover exactly how.

A
fter dinner back in London--a classic British fry-up of eggs, bacon, and toast that Adam had volunteered to produce--I slipped out of the house and down the passageway into Hampstead village. I needed some space from Adam and some time to think about what I'd learned at Steventon.

I walked down Hampstead High Street, unsure of my destination. Even at that hour, the pavement bustled with people arriving home from work or headed out for dinner or a night at the pub. Out of habit, I crossed the street and slipped into Starbucks. Not very British of me, but I was craving the comfort of a skinny latte. I ordered my coffee and looked around for a table, but the place was packed.

"Would you like to join me?" a voice asked. I turned to my right and saw a devastatingly attractive man about my own age.

He looked like a California surfer dude who'd been dropped
into the middle of Hampstead, and his American accent made me smile.

"Oh, I couldn't--"

He waved at the empty chair opposite his. "Come on. Europeans do it all the time." He winked. "I mean, they share tables in crowded cafes with strangers." That deep voice, rich as sin and chocolate combined, weakened my knees.

C'mon, Emma
, the voice inside my head said.
Live a little
. After all, he was very cute. He was American. And he was looking at me as if I were his favorite dessert. I had to admit that after Edward's betrayal, my ego needed a little stroking.

"I won't bite," he added. "But suit yourself."

His easy nonchalance made the decision for me.

"Thanks." I slipped into the empty chair.

"Barry Morgan," he said.

"Emma Grant," I answered and politely shook his proffered hand.

"So, Emma Grant, what brings you to London?" He lounged in the rigid, straight-backed chair as if it were my dad's La-Z-Boy.

I froze with my latte halfway to my mouth. "Um ..." It was a simple question, but subterfuge was new to me. I was going to need practice.

"Research," I said. "I'm a college professor." Or was, but my new friend Barry Morgan didn't need to know that.

His heavenly blue eyes lit up. "Me too. I'm at UC Santa Barbara." I stifled a laugh. That explained the surfer-dude look. "Where do you teach, Emma Grant?"

Without batting an eyelash, I gave him the name of my previous employer. He was suitably impressed.

"Very nice. What's your specialty?"

"Jane Austen."

"Hemingway," he responded with a classic bad-boy grin. "Drinking and women and minimalist prose."

He was flirting with me, but I was so out of practice, I didn't even know how to respond except to laugh. He was funny, handsome, intelligent. And he actually wanted to talk to me.
I could get used to this
.

"I'm on sabbatical," he continued, charm flowing as naturally from him as water from a mountain spring. "Just making a stopover in London. I'm headed for Italy, but Sophie wanted to spend some time here first."

"Sophie?" A zing of disappointment shot through me.

He shrugged. "My colleague. She's traveling with me to the conference."

I had to be careful not to squeeze my paper cup too tightly. I didn't want steaming latte pouring out all over my hand.

"What about you?" Barry asked. "Are you traveling with anyone?"

I shook my head. "My ... my husband and I split up recently." I wondered if telling people would ever get any easier.

Barry leaned forward, lines of concern etched around his mouth. He rested his forearms on the little table. "What happened?"

I didn't want to tell him. Couldn't tell him. Not the truth, anyway. Not the kitchen-table variety.

"We just grew apart," I said, which was true, if you defined adultery as two people growing apart.

He shook his head in dismay. "He's an idiot," he said.

"Yeah, well ..." I shrugged my shoulders. "
Que sera, sera
."

Long before Doris Day, those words had been the motto of the Dukes of Bedford. Edward would have known that. Adam, too, would have caught the reference. Barry just nodded his head as if keeping the beat to a tune I couldn't hear.

"So, how long will you be in London?" he asked.

"I'm not certain. Awhile."

"We should hang out."

I looked at him, unsure whether to be amused or horrified. I had a feeling the unseen Sophie wouldn't be too amenable to my hanging out with Barry, but maybe they really were only friends. His interest and attention were certainly doing wonders for my self-esteem.

"It doesn't sound like you're going to be here that long yourself," I said, trying to steer him away from the subject. "Are you staying in Hampstead?"

He shook his head. "No. The Savoy. We came up here to walk around the Heath, but Sophie got a blister and went back to the hotel."

"I hope she's okay," I said, although I was secretly glad that her departure had given rise to the opportunity to meet him.

He waved a hand. "She's fine. So, have you had dinner?"

I nodded. "I'm afraid so. And I really have to get back."

"You're with someone?" I could see the speculative gleam in his eye.

"Just staying at my cousin's." I wasn't lying, just omitting information.

"Maybe tomorrow? Sophie's having a spa day or something."

"Maybe."

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "What's your number?"

I was too embarrassed to admit that I'd had to relinquish my cell phone after the divorce. Groceries had to come first, and you couldn't eat a cell phone.

"I have an appointment in South Kensington tomorrow," I said instead. "Why don't we meet there? How about the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens? Two o'clock?"