“It’s just a party,” Walter said. “There will be champagne.”
“How grand,” said Jane. “And I suppose there will be charades and the Minister’s Cat?”
Walter gave her a look that reminded her far too much of a wounded puppy. “Please?” he said.
Jane took another bite of cinnamon bun and chewed it before answering. “Possibly,” she replied. “But only because you bribed me.”
Walter smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be pleased to have you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I’ve got to go,” said Walter, looking at his watch. “We’re tearing out Maggie Beecher’s kitchen this morning, and she throws a fit if we’re not there by ten sharp.”
He hurried out before Jane could make any further protests. When he was gone Lucy said, “I don’t know why you won’t go out with him. He’s been asking you for over a year.”
Jane sighed. “We’re just not a good match,” she said.
“Because he’s a carpenter?” asked Lucy.
“No,” Jane said sharply. “And he’s not just a carpenter. He restores old houses, and beautifully. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s just that he … that I … we don’t …” She couldn’t finish the sentence in any way that wouldn’t make her sound like a snob.
“I don’t get it,” said Lucy. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He likes books and art and all the same things you do. Plus he’s a hottie.”
“I suppose he’s attractive enough,” Jane agreed, thinking about the pleasing arrangement of Walter’s features. And he has such strong hands, she thought.
“Then remind me again why you can’t go out with him,” said Lucy.
Because I’m dead, Jane thought. Because he’ll age and I won’t. Because men generally don’t like women who need to drink blood to stay alive. What she said was, “I’m perfectly happy with my life.”
Lucy made a vague humming sound.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane demanded.
Lucy stacked some books on a table. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just humming.”
“I know that hum,” said Jane curtly. “That’s your ‘whatever’ hum.”
“Sure it is,” Lucy said. “Okay.”
“It is!” said Jane. “And you know it!”
Lucy glanced over at her. “Whatever,” she said sweetly.
“Maybe I should date him.”
“You go right ahead,” Jane said, trying to sound as if she didn’t care in the least. “Just because he’s old enough to be your father, don’t let that stop you.”
“Ah-ha!” Lucy crowed. “You do like him.”
“I do not!” said Jane. “I’m just pointing out a fact.”
“You like Walter,” Lucy said in a singsong voice.
Jane dismissed Lucy with a shake of her head. “Whatever,” she said.
Chapter 4
She looked at the box, not daring to hope that inside of it were the pens and paper she had requested as her Christmas gift. Constance knew her parents thought her request fanciful, and she feared that her mother and father—not out of cruelty or disapproval, but simply because they could not conceive of their daughter wanting to commit herself to the life of an artist—might have instead purchased for her hair ribbons, paper dolls, or yet another china kitten.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE A BLUR. TRAFFIC AT THE BOOKSTORE was brisk as shoppers rushed to cross off all the names on their Christmas lists. Lucy’s prediction that all things Austen would be strong sellers proved correct, and Jane watched as stacks of her books and their assorted spin-offs disappeared out the door. This was both gratifying and depressing, as the thought of all the uncollectible royalties gave her a headache.
“I knew we should have ordered the Jane Austen action figure,” Lucy remarked during a rare lull in the hustle and bustle. “I’ve had six customers ask for it today alone.”
“No dolls,” Jane said shortly. “It’s bad enough I let you talk me into those Austen ornaments.”
“Just like Jane hung on her tree!” Lucy said brightly, quoting from the box that the ornaments came in.
“Indeed,” said Jane. Never mind that virtually no one in England had a Christmas tree until almost thirty years after I was dead. However, they’d sold all three dozen boxes at $29.95 a pop, so she couldn’t complain.
Finally the evening of the twenty-fourth arrived. Jane let Lucy go at two, and at six o’clock she rang up the last customer, a harried man who had rushed in fifteen minutes earlier and raced through the store grabbing books from the shelves seemingly at random. As Jane rang up his purchases he ran his finger down a piece of paper in his hand.
“Emily, Frank, Sandra, Will, Jack, Maggie, Lloyd, Peter, Sally, Deirdre, and the other Jack,” he read aloud. “I don’t suppose you have any books a dog would like?” he asked hopefully.
“What kind of dog?” said Jane as she scanned the bar code on the back of the latest Anne Rice novel.
“French bulldog,” the man replied. “Name of Gregory.”
“Perhaps he’d enjoy some Victor Hugo,” Jane suggested. “Or,” she continued, reaching under the counter and bringing out a large rawhide bone wrapped with a green ribbon—another of Lucy’s ideas—“this might do the trick.”
The man beamed. “Perfect!” he said. “Now I’m done.”
“Wrapping paper?” Jane asked.
“Damn it!” the man muttered.
“Over there,” Jane said, nodding in the direction of the well-picked-over rack. “I think there’s still some left that isn’t too hideously cheerful.”
The man picked out two rolls of paper and added them to his pile. Minutes later he was walking out the door with three bulging bags and $438 added to his next American Express bill.
“Merry Christmas,” he called out to Jane as he walked away.
“Merry Christmas,” she echoed as she shut the door and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. As she walked to the office she realized that her feet hurt. Rather than stay and clean up the disheveled store, she opted to turn out the lights and go home. The shop was closed the next day anyway; she could always tidy up then.
At home Tom greeted her enthusiastically when she came in, purring loudly and twisting about her ankles like some kind of furry motorboat.
“You only love me when you’re hungry,” she accused him, but knelt and scooped him up anyway, carrying him into the kitchen and depositing him on the counter. He ran to the cupboard in which she kept the tinned food, and looked longingly at the door.
As she readied Tom’s Christmas Eve dinner, Jane couldn’t help thinking about Christmases past. The season had always been a happy one for her, filled with delightful smells and sounds and plenty of laughter. Since her death, however, Christmas had become at best just another day and at worst a reminder of what she’d once had.
Now she found that she missed it terribly. She thought of one Christmas in particular, that of 1786. She and Cassie, recently returned from boarding school to the rectory at Steventon, had been eleven and thirteen. Free of the restrictions of school, with its rules and the stern matrons who enforced them, they were reveling in being home again. Like caged birds suddenly released, they flitted about the house, always underfoot.
She recalled the smell of roasting goose, of Christmas pudding and spiced wine. She heard her father’s voice as he spoke with pride to anyone who would listen about twelve-year-old Frank, already serving in the Royal Navy. And she recalled fondly the sound of Henry, her favorite brother, singing as he hung the holly and the ivy. Then there were the dances and parties, all of which she experienced with the excitement of a girl longing for the time when she could move in the adult world.
Pushing these thoughts aside, she went upstairs to the smaller bedroom she used as an office. She sat down at her computer and opened the file for her novel. It was time to be realistic—it was never going to sell.
She had avoided accepting this for
long enough. But now she had to admit that perhaps Jane Austen had written her last book. Was it possible the novels she’d produced were all that were in her? After all, she hadn’t expected to live forever, and maybe she had said everything she had to say. It occurred to her that all of the editors who had rejected her manuscript might simply have recognized what she herself hadn’t.
She clicked on the file, revealing the Options box, and highlighted Move to Trash. She wondered what her fans would do if they saw her poised to delete an unread novel. Would they attempt to stop her? Of course they would, she told herself. After all, they eagerly bought up the sequels other authors had written to her books, and even novels written about people who liked her novels. They couldn’t get enough of her. But they’ll never know.
She began to make the final click that would send her manuscript to its death. But then her eye was distracted by a flash in the top left corner of her screen. She had a message in her in-box.
Granting her novel a temporary reprieve, she opened her email and looked at the latest arrival. The subject line read: I hope it hasn’t already been snatched up. The sender was someone whose name she didn’t recognize: Kelly Littlejohn.
It’s probably just spam, she thought as she prepared to delete it. But something about the name tugged at her memory, and she instead opened the message.
Dear Jane:
Kindly excuse the shortness of this email. I am currently on a train from Paris to Vienna, and am not at all confident that my wireless connection will last.
I have just finished reading the manuscript you sent in September. In short, I love it. I fear, though, that I am probably too late and that another, more efficient editor has already claimed it. If that’s the case, I will be disappointed beyond words, but will have only myself to blame.
If, however, the novel is still available, I would like to put a claim on it. I will be traveling for the next few days, but please reply if this reaches you and you are interested in further discussion. If I don’t hear from you, I will contact you when I am once again in New York.
All my best,
Kelly Littlejohn
Senior Editor
Browder Publishing
Jane read the email through four times in disbelief. On the fifth read she allowed herself to be the tiniest bit excited. By the seventh she was genuinely thrilled.
“Someone likes my book!” she called out. “Did you hear that, Tom? Someone likes my book. No, someone loves my book,” she corrected. “Kelly Littlejohn loves my book.”
She couldn’t remember sending the manuscript to anyone called Kelly Littlejohn, but that didn’t surprise her. She’d sent it to so many editors that their names cluttered her mind like scraps of paper. But she had sent it, and Kelly—bless her heart—loved it. She wanted to publish it.
Jane considered playing it cool and not responding to the email. And for a full minute she succeeded. Then, fearful that the editor might take her silence for rejection, she typed a quick note.
Dear Kelly:
Thank you for your message. Yes, the book is still available, and yes, I would be interested in speaking with you when you return.
Sincerely,
Jane Fairfax
She hit send before she could change her mind. She wanted her response to be positive but not fawning, interested but not desperate. “It’s a fine line,” she reminded herself.
She read Kelly’s email again. After so many rejections she felt as if she were reading a message about someone else’s book. For a moment she even feared that the editor had mistaken her book for another and contacted the wrong author. She was tempted to write again and confirm that it was in fact her novel Kelly wanted, but she refrained.
Money didn’t enter her mind. Neither did the possibility of fame. She was going to be published. For the first time in centuries she would be able to hold in her hands a new book she’d written.
She read Kelly’s email one more time, feeling for the first time in two centuries like a little girl on Christmas morning.
Chapter 5
She told herself that she detested parties. In particular she was weary of the exchange of frivolous gossip that masqueraded as sophisticated conversation. What did she care about Emilia Rothman’s new dress, and what of interest could be found in the whispered debates regarding the handsomeness of Arthur Potts’s recently acquired moustache?
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
“SO YOU’LL BE OKAY LOOKING AFTER THE STORE FOR A FEW DAYS?”
“Of course I will,” Lucy told Jane. “It’s a bookstore, not a day care.”
“All right, then,” said Jane. “I don’t imagine you can do too much damage in that amount of time.”
“You might be surprised,” Lucy teased.
It had been a week since Jane had received Kelly Littlejohn’s email. She still hadn’t spoken to her new editor, but they had corresponded by email several times. Twice now the editor had called the novel “Austenesque,” which always made Jane giggle when she read it.
Kelly had emailed Jane the previous evening to say that she was returning from Europe earlier than expected and to suggest that Jane take the train down to New York on the second of January so that they could meet in person. The publisher would put her up in a hotel. Jane had agreed before asking Lucy if she would mind the store, knowing full well that her assistant would jump at the chance to have free rein.
“I’d better not come back to find you’ve replaced all the self-help books with graphic novels,” Jane warned.
Lucy grinned. “I was thinking more of putting them where the religion books are,” she said. “And installing a cappuccino machine.”
Jane groaned. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”
Lucy rubbed Jane’s shoulders. “Oh, relax,” she said. “It’s New Year’s week. Nobody buys anything anyway—they just return the stuff they got for Christmas.”
“That makes me feel much better,” said Jane. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t told Lucy the reason for her trip, at least not the real reason. Lucy thought she was going to New York to meet a friend and see a show. Although Jane badly wanted to share her news, she felt it would be a mistake to talk about it until everything was in order.
“Some time away from here will be good for you,” Lucy informed her. “You’ve been so … tense lately.”
Jane shot her a look. “Meaning what?” she demanded.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Meaning that,” she said. “You’ve just been a little snippy.”
“I have not been snippy,” Jane objected.
“Okay, okay,” said Lucy, holding her hands up in defeat. “You haven’t been snippy. My bad.”
“Go shelve something,” Jane said, trying not to laugh. She could never get mad at Lucy.
Lucy walked away grinning. “I get to be in cha-aa-aa-rge,” she said in a singsong voice.
The phone rang and Jane answered it. “Flyleaf Books.”
“Yes, could you please tell Miss Jane Fairfax that there’s a gentleman caller on the line for her?”
“Hello, Walter,” Jane said. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m just calling to confirm your presence at tonight’s New Year’s Eve gathering,” he answered.
Jane groaned silently. She’d forgotten all about Walter’s party. She’d said she would go, but now that it was upon her she dreaded it. She considered telling Walter that she couldn’t make it, but she was suddenly unable to think of a believable excuse. “Of course I’ll be there,” she replied. “What shall I bring?”
“Nothing but your fine sense of humor and your smiling face,” Walter told her. “That will be more than enough.”
“You’re satisfied with so little,” Jane joked. “What time do the festivities begin?”
“Nine,” said Walter.
Nine, Jane thought. That means at least three hours with those people. She shuddered. “I’ll see you then.”
“Got a date?” a
sked Lucy when Jane had hung up.
“It’s very rude to listen to other people’s conversations,” Jane told her. “And no, it is not a date. It’s that party.”
“Don’t you just love New Year’s Eve?” Lucy asked. “I do,” she added, not waiting for Jane’s answer. “It’s like you’re getting another chance to get it right.”
“Get what right?” said Jane.
“Everything,” Lucy answered. “Your life. It’s a new start. You can be anything you want, do anything you want.”
“You don’t need a new year for that,” said Jane.
“Of course not,” Lucy agreed. “But it’s symbolic. A new year, a new you. What are your resolutions?”
“I learned long ago not to make any,” said Jane. “They only set you up for failure.”
This was true. As girls she and Cassie had always made New Year’s resolutions. They wrote them on pieces of paper that were then folded and sealed with the wax from their father’s study, and gave them to each other for safekeeping. They did not open them until the next New Year’s Eve, when they looked at what they had written and debated whether or not they had achieved their goals. Too often Jane had failed, although admittedly this was generally because her resolutions were along the lines of “stop gossiping about the neighbors” and “try to pay more attention in church.” Cassie, who was much more likely to have accomplished her goals, never made Jane feel small. Regardless, her lack of success chafed, and she had eventually stopped altogether.
“Well, I have some,” Lucy continued, undeterred. “I’m going to go to yoga three times a week, learn French, run a marathon, and get at least two poems published—and not online, in real magazines. Oh, and I’m going to volunteer helping underprivileged kids learn to read.”
“Very admirable,” Jane told her. “I applaud your determination.”
“Or maybe I should just lose five pounds, finally paint my bedroom, and stop smoking,” said Lucy.