Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [14]
“There are so many people here,” she said quickly, looking around the room. Walter’s house seemed to be overflowing with guests, all of whom were dressed in holiday finery. Suddenly, Jane’s plain green dress seemed woefully inadequate, despite Walter’s compliment.
Walter placed his arm around her waist. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “There are some Historical Society members here, and I promised to bore them with the details of my plans for the restoration of the library. But don’t disappear. I’ll be looking for you later.”
Jane watched him go, feeling her discomfort increase. She’d arrived late, hoping to limit the amount of time she had to endure the party. As a young lady at Steventon rectory, she had loved parties, had looked forward to dancing and playing the pianoforte, to the lively conversations and drawing-room intrigues. How many times she and Cassie had sat together on a sofa, holding hands and whispering scandalously about the goings-on both seen and unseen. Now she scanned the living room for a place of refuge and saw, seated alone on the couch, Sherman Applebaum. The editor of the smaller of the town’s two newspapers, Sherman was into the latter half of his sixties. He had a fondness for waistcoats and bowler hats, which Jane found charming. He was also, she knew from past encounters, an inveterate gossip. Her favorite kind.
She crossed the room and took a seat beside Sherman.
“Finally, someone has come to my rescue,” Sherman said dramatically. “I was starting to think I might spend the entire evening alone.”
Jane laughed. “Somehow I think you’d be your own best company, Sherman.”
Sherman smiled and patted Jane’s knee. “You flatter me,” he said. “Please do continue. At my advanced age I don’t have many opportunities to be complimented by attractive young women.”
If you only knew, Jane thought. Even your great-great-great-grandfather couldn’t accurately call me a young woman.
“Where did you get that lovely drink?” she asked. “I need one desperately.”
“I’ll get one for you,” Sherman said. “Don’t go away.”
“No, no,” said Jane. “I’ll go.”
“Nonsense,” Sherman replied, standing up. “A gentleman never allows a lady to get her own drink. Besides, I fear that if I don’t move around from time to time, I’ll wither and die.”
He got up and meandered toward the kitchen. Jane settled into the sofa to await his return, scanning the room for any signs of intriguing topics of conversation. Then, as if out of nowhere, a woman materialized in front of her.
“Jane,” she said. “What a surprise.”
Jane nearly jumped out of her seat. “Miranda,” she answered. “How nice to see you.”
This was not true. Miranda Fleck was an assistant professor of English at nearby Meade College. She was impossibly young, impossibly skinny, and impossibly ambitious. She spoke almost exclusively in declarative sentences, which had the effect of unnerving most people. To Jane’s irritation, Miranda assumed Sherman’s place on the sofa.
“I was in your shop earlier this week,” said Miranda.
Jane waited for Miranda to continue, allowing the silence to grow. She was unsure whether to thank Miranda or defend herself. Imbuing her words with absolutely no emotion whatsoever was another hallmark of Miranda’s speech.
“You have a particularly conspicuous display of that book combining the text of Pride and Prejudice with—how do they describe it—ultraviolent zombie mayhem,” Miranda continued.
“It’s one of our bestsellers,” Jane replied cautiously.
This was true. The book, which had come out earlier in the year, was a surprise hit. Part of her bristled at the notion of someone taking her novel and inserting new, decidedly unorthodox text into it, and she’d briefly considered visiting some unpleasantness upon the author, but ultimately amusement had won out over irritation and she’d even begun to recommend the book to customers. Although receiving royalties from it would be nice.
“I know it’s only Austen,” Miranda