“Oh, I do understand,” said Violet. “I understand that unless you stand up tomorrow at your panel and admit to what you’ve done, I will be forced to expose you.”
“What?” Jane said. “I can’t do that. It’s not true.”
“Tomorrow,” said Violet, turning to leave. She looked back at Jane. “If you don’t do it, I will.”
Chapter 26
Charles arrived at the cottage in October, after the first hard frost had brought death to the last of the apples and the few leaves clinging stubbornly to the trees had withered. He came on a bright, cold afternoon, carrying a small suitcase and his favorite ginger tom in a wicker basket. Constance, returning from a walk to the pond to see if the bank ducks had finished building their nest, saw him standing near the front door. But instead of running to him at once she stood very still for a long moment, admiring the way the sunlight dappled his hair.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
JANE WISHED IT WERE DARKER. ALTHOUGH TWILIGHT HAD descended and rain continued to fall, it was still bright enough for Violet to see Jane if she happened to turn around. But so far she hadn’t so much as paused, walking briskly through the French Quarter in a peculiar zigzagging route that made Jane wonder if the woman knew she was being followed.
Which of course she was. Jane had waited only long enough for the shock and anger cause by Violet’s demand to subside, then had trailed her as she left the hotel. She wasn’t sure why, or what she was going to do, but her instinct told her to keep Violet in her sight. And so she followed, staying a block behind in the event she needed to duck into a doorway to escape being seen.
So far Violet had traversed Chartres Street until reaching Jackson Square, on the far side of which she turned onto St. Ann and headed northwest. Turning again, she headed in an easterly direction down Dauphine, eventually crossing the Esplanade and entering the Faubourg Marigny. She continued past Washington Square, crossed Elysian Fields, turned onto Mandeville, and a block later made a final turn onto Burgundy. Halfway down that block she stopped in front of a small red house on the west side of the street, walked across the porch to its front door, and went inside. Jane stood in the shadows across the street, wishing she had worn sensible shoes. Her feet ached, and she could tell that a blister had already formed on her right big toe.
A light went on in the house Violet had entered, shining through the slatted wood shutters and casting watery yellow stripes across the white-painted floorboards of the porch. Jane could see nothing because of the shutters, and so she quickly crossed the street and ducked into the space between Violet’s house and the next. There was another window there, but it was covered by heavy drapes, preventing Jane from seeing inside. She continued on, hoping to find a more revealing opening.
She found it at the back of the house. The yard was small, and its garden had been allowed to grow wild, so it now resembled a jungle of flowering plants that perfumed the air. There was a smaller version of the front porch outside a simple door that Jane assumed led to the kitchen. A narrow window on one side of the door glowed faintly in the gloom. Jane thought grimly of snakes as she made her way to the porch and peered through the glass.
She’d been right about the kitchen. It was a fairly large one, shabby but clean. The appliances were quite old—almost antique, Jane thought—and the wallpaper had worn away in several spots due to water damage. She really ought to have the roof looked at, Jane thought. Walter would be appalled if he saw this.
To one side of the room was a table, rectangular in shape and painted a kind of celery color. Four chairs were arranged around it, one on each side. Three of the chairs were occupied by seated figures. Seeing them, Jane stepped back, afraid that she would be detected. But when after a full minute had passed with none of them moving, she took a second look.
Two of the figures were female. They were dressed in somber dresses much like the one Violet wore. Their hair too was done up like hers, and their faces were equally pale. The third figure was male. He wore a suit, and his hair was parted neatly on one side. His back was to Jane and so she could not see his face. All three of the figures held their hands neatly in their laps.
A moment later Violet entered the room. “I’m back,” she said. “And I believe our plan has worked.”
None of the others answered her, but Violet didn’t seem to notice. She moved about the kitchen, taking items from the refrigerator and putting them on the table, pouring wine into four glasses and setting one at each place. When she was done she took the final seat, across from the man. She lifted her glass.
“To revenge,” she said. She laughed and took a sip of her wine. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Isn’t it delicious?” she asked.
No reply came from the other three diners, none of whom moved even a finger. Their glasses sat untouched before them. Still seemingly unaffected by their silence, Violet picked up a platter of meat and lifted a piece from it.
“Anne?” she said, looking to her right. “Oh, of course. You prefer the end cut. I’m sorry.” She turned to her left and laid the meat on the plate there. “It’s Emily who prefers it rare.”
Anne and Emily seem to be keeping their opinions to themselves, Jane thought as she watched Violet load the plates with food. The strange tableau made less and less sense.
“Will you say the blessing?” Violet said, appearing to address the man across from her. She bowed her head. Jane heard no voice come from the man’s mouth, but after a few moments Violet raised her head. “Thank you, Branwell,” she said.
Branwell? Jane thought. Anne? Emily? Realization dawned on her. She looked at Violet, who was talking animatedly as she ate. They’re dolls, thought Jane. Mannequins or something. She’s dressed them up and thinks they’re the Brontës.
Suddenly it all made sense. Violet wasn’t just a Brontëite; she was obsessed with them. No wonder she wanted to believe that Jane’s manuscript had been written by Charlotte. She even pretends that she is Charlotte, Jane thought. That’s why the others were called Anne and Emily. Of course she picked the most successful one for herself, thought Jane. She may be nuts, but she’s at least clever.
Jane had met any number of Brontë fanatics, but Violet took the cake. Not only had she created her own little family, she had somehow managed to unearth Jane’s manuscript and convince herself it was really Charlotte who had penned it. It was actually kind of sad, and Jane felt a little bit bad for the girl.
Then again, she’s trying to blackmail me, she reminded herself. The question was what to do about it. She could deny Violet’s claims, but as long as Violet was in possession of the manuscript there would always be evidence that Jane had copied someone’s work. Whether it was deemed by experts to be Charlotte’s or not, Jane would be charged with plagiarism.
I have to get it back, Jane thought. It’s the only way.
But how? She couldn’t just walk in and demand that Violet give it to her. You could always drain her, a voice in her head suggested.
It wasn’t a bad idea. She could easily do that, then look for the manuscript while the girl was out cold. With a bit of luck Violet wouldn’t remember any of it the next day. But she would still remember the manuscript, which would defeat the whole point. The only sure way to handle her was to drain her completely. To kill her.
Jane was tempted. After all, Violet was threatening her. Worse, she was accusing her of stealing her own work. She really does sort of deserve it, Jane thought. But what if she’d told someone else? A friend, perhaps? Or the manuscript expert she’d mentioned. Who was he? Jane had no idea. If she took out Violet, there were still people who could implicate her.
No, the only solution was to get the manuscript itself. Hopefully, Violet had only the one copy. If Jane could get it back, then Violet could make any accusations she wanted to, but without the proof to back them up she would never be taken seriously. She might be able to cause some irritation, or even speculation, but it would be short-lived. And if anyone looked hard enough
, they would certainly see that Violet was as mad as a basket of rats.
Jane’s challenge, then, was to find the manuscript. If need be, she would bite the girl and incapacitate her, but she hoped that would not be necessary. She would prefer that Violet not see her at all. But she was prepared to do as she must.
She obviously could not enter the house through the kitchen, so she looked for another way. The front door was risky, but she thought a side window might do nicely. Unfortunately, the one she’d passed was locked. She went to the other side and found a second, smaller window. The glass was rippled and difficult to see through. This must be the bathroom, Jane thought.
She tried the window, and to her immense relief it slid up, revealing the bathroom Jane had suspected would be there. The door to the room was closed. Now Jane just had to get inside. She put her hands on the sill and gave a little jump. Her head passed into the room and she hung there for a moment, balanced on her stomach as she teetered like a seesaw. Then she was able to grasp the lip of the clawfoot bathtub over which she hovered and pulled herself in. She tumbled into the large tub and lay there, catching her breath and listening for the sound of footsteps.
When none came, she climbed out of the tub and went to the bathroom door. Peering through the keyhole, she looked into a long hallway. It was mostly dark, but from the far end came the glow of the kitchen lamp. So far, so good, thought Jane as she eased open the door. She stepped into the hall and looked around. There were two other doors, both of them closed. One of them, she hoped, led to the room where her manuscript was being stored.
She went to the first door and tried the knob. The door opened onto a closet filled with old coats. The smell of mothballs clung heavily to them. Jane stifled a cough as she closed the door and moved on. From the kitchen came the sound of running water. Dinner must be over, Jane thought. I’ll have to hurry.
The second door opened onto what appeared to be a study. A large desk faced one wall, and built-in bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling were filled near to bursting with volumes of all kinds. Oddly, given the time of year, a fire was burning in the small fireplace at the side of the room opposite the desk. An armchair sat in front of it, facing the fire. And before the hearth a small brown and white spaniel was stretched out, its paws twitching as it slept.
Great, thought Jane as she entered the room and shut the door carefully behind her. All she needed was for the dog to wake up and start barking. She eyed it warily as she went to the desk, which seemed the most logical place to look for her manuscript. She pulled open the center drawer. It was filled with the usual assortment of odds and ends: pens, erasers, stamps, a few sheets of stationery. Jane closed it again.
She went through each drawer as quickly and silently as she could. Each time she came up empty-handed. If Violet indeed had a manuscript, she had hidden it somewhere else. Jane stepped into the center of the room and looked around. Perhaps she’s secreted it inside one of the books, she thought, eyeing the shelves that were groaning beneath the weight of their holdings. There was no way she could look through each of them.
The dog gave a yip, making Jane flinch. She looked over at it and saw that it was still asleep. She wondered idly what it was dreaming about. Then she noticed that there was something on the chair beside it. A stack of papers. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? she wondered.
She crept over to the chair and looked. Leaning down, she picked up the papers and looked at them in the firelight. She watched him leave the house with a feeling of great triumph diluted by the bitter taste of despair, she read. She recognized it as the opening sentence (since revised) of chapter 17 of her novel. She recognized too her own hand. The manuscript appeared to be her original.
A single page fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up. It was the title page. Constance, it read. By Jane Austen. Only her name had been crossed out and the name of Charlotte Brontë had been written above it.
Violet really had found it after all. And she knew that Jane was the true author. Not Brontë. “Then why?” she heard herself say.
“Because it’s the book I should have written.”
Jane whirled around to find Violet standing behind her in the doorway. She was looking at Jane with an expression of pure hatred.
“I should have known you would come after it,” she said as she turned and shut the door to the room. “I suppose I did know.”
“What do you mean, it’s the book you should have written?” Jane asked. “Do you write?”
Violet laughed. Her tone was icy. Jane noticed the spaniel wake from its dream and sit up. Now I have two of them to worry about, she thought.
“Do I write?” Violet said. “Yes, I do. And far better than Austen. At least until she wrote that.” She nodded at the manuscript in Jane’s hand. “That is a masterpiece.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, her manners trumping her fear and confusion.
Violet shook her head. “Only no one will believe you wrote it,” she said. “They’ll think I did.”
“You?” said Jane. “You said you believe that Charlotte Brontë wrote it.” She held up the title page and shook it.
Violet scowled. “Are you really so stupid?” she said. “Haven’t you figured out who I am?”
“I know who you think you are,” said Jane carefully. She thought about the figures seated around the kitchen table. “You think you’re Charlotte Brontë. Which is fine,” she added quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You idiot!” Violet snapped. “I don’t think I’m Charlotte. I am Charlotte!”
As Violet opened her mouth in a roar, Jane saw the two fangs that had descended from her upper jaw. No, she thought. It can’t be.
“Give me the manuscript and I might let you live,” said Violet. She took a step toward Jane.
Let me live? Jane thought. What is she talking about? Then it dawned on her—Violet didn’t know who she was. She thinks I’m ordinary Jane Fairfax, she realized.
“Wait!” Jane shouted, stalling for time. “I’ll give it to you. Just tell me where you found it. I … I thought I’d found the only copy.”
Violet laughed. “Of course you did,” she said. “How would you know that I got this one from Lord Byron? Well, I stole it from him, anyway.”
“Byron?” said Jane. She thought for a moment. “He turned you, didn’t he?”
It was Violet’s turn to look confused. “How do you know that?” she hissed.
Jane rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, who do you think I am?” She bared her teeth and let her fangs slip into place. “That bastard seems to have slept his way through all of English literature.”
“No,” said Charlotte, stepping back. “It can’t be. You can’t be.”
“Yes, well, it seems we both are,” Jane informed her. “So what do we do now?”
“Jasper!” Charlotte yelled in response. “Sic her!”
The spaniel leapt to its feet, ready to obey its master. Jane, seeing it coming for her, knew that she couldn’t get out of the room, especially with Charlotte standing in the way.
“Jasper, sit!” she said sternly
To her surprise, it worked. The dog sat and looked up at her expectantly.
“Jasper!” Charlotte cried.
Before Charlotte could complete her command, Jane rushed to the fireplace and threw the manuscript into it. The aged paper caught fire immediately and began to crumble.
“No!” Charlotte screamed. She ran over and pushed Jane out of the way, reaching into the fireplace to retrieve the papers.
Jane scrambled to her feet and backed away, watching as Charlotte tried to salvage what was left of the manuscript. It really is her, she admitted.
Charlotte had removed some of the papers and was trying to beat out the flames with her hands. As she did, a tongue of flame leapt up and kissed the sleeve of her dress. Instantly it blossomed with fire, which quickly consumed the material. Charlotte screamed in pain.
“Help me!” she
shouted, beating at herself with her hands. This succeeded only in helping the fire to spread, and in a moment her torso was engulfed in flame.
Jane, horrified, could only stand and watch as Charlotte spun around like a dervish, trying to put herself out. Then Jane realized that the fire was spreading to the room. Already the chair was aflame, and the edges of the carpet were smoldering. A moment later Jasper ran to the door and began scratching at it furiously.
His fear drove Jane to action. Turning her back on the shrieking Charlotte, she opened the door and followed Jasper into the hall. He ran toward the kitchen with Jane right behind him. The hallway was already filling with smoke. Jasper ran through the kitchen and hit the back door with his nose. It swung open, and he ran out into the night. Jane was about to follow him when she noticed the kitchen table and the three figures still seated around it.
She went up to the closest one and looked at its face. Skin, or what was left of it, was stretched across the skull. The eyes were gone. The mouth was a bit of shriveled flesh. She looked at the other two bodies. They were equally mummified.
She didn’t, Jane thought, looking into the faces of Charlotte’s famous siblings and shivering. Well, that’s just wrong. Then she heard a crash as part of the roof caved in. She ran to the door and pushed it open, following Jasper to safety.
Chapter 27
Jonathan’s appearance, although not completely unexpected, was nevertheless a shock. After so many months without a word, she had gradually allowed herself to believe that perhaps he had moved on to another amusement. Now she realized that she ought to have known better. He would never let her go. Never. Not until one or the other of them was dead.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
“I JUST KILLED CHARLOTTE BRONTË.”
Jane was in her hotel room, her cell phone in one hand and a box of bandages in the other. She had practically run back to the hotel, and her blisters were killing her.