Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [15]
“Have you read the book?” asked Jane.
Miranda snorted. “Of course not,” she said. “I wouldn’t read such trash.”
“Perhaps you should,” Jane said. “It’s quite funny.”
“Funny,” Miranda repeated. “I suspect Austen wouldn’t agree with that assessment.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jane told her. “Austen was a great fan of the novels of Ann Radcliffe. She had a real fondness for the gothic.”
“I would hardly call zombies gothic,” Miranda argued. “Vampires, perhaps, but not zombies.”
Jane, with great relief, saw Sherman approaching with a drink in each hand. When he noticed Miranda, his face visibly stiffened. Then, just as quickly, a smile returned.
“Ladies,” he said, “I have arrived with refreshments.”
He handed a glass of wine to each of them. Miranda, as if she’d assumed all along that Sherman had gone to get her a drink, accepted her glass without comment. Sherman, now without his own glass, sat beside her. Jane almost offered him her wine, but she knew he wouldn’t accept it. He’s too much of a gentleman, she thought. And Miranda is too much of a boor.
“Jane and I were just discussing whether or not Austen would appreciate her landscape being overrun by the undead,” Miranda told Sherman.
“Ah, the zombie book,” Sherman said. “A rollicking good read.”
Jane stifled a laugh. Miranda frowned.
“Mind you, I prefer the original,” Sherman continued. “But there’s nothing at all wrong with giving the classics a bit of a tweaking. I gave that book to my nephew’s youngest. What would that make her, my great-niece? No, grandniece. At any rate, she’s twelve. She loved it. Now she’s reading all of Austen. So there you are.” He looked at Miranda as if this were the last word on the subject.
“Miranda fears that vampires will be next,” Jane said, unable to resist. “Sense and Sensibility and Dracula, perhaps.”
“I’m partial to werewolves, myself,” Sherman said. “I think Emma would make a fine lycanthrope.”
Miranda sipped her wine. “Well, if they’re going to bastardize anyone, I’m not surprised that it’s Austen,” she said icily.
Jane bristled. Miranda was a Brontëite, and like most of them, she not-so-secretly resented the fact that Jane’s books regularly outsold those of the beloved sisters.
“Austen is our most popular author,” Jane parried.
Miranda reacted to Jane’s maneuver without flinching. “I suppose keeping your doors open requires appealing to the public’s tastes,” she remarked.
She’d do very well in a drawing-room battle, Jane thought, admiring Miranda despite her personal distaste for the woman. One would never quite know what she was saying, or on which side of her opinion one fell.
All of a sudden a sharp twinge stabbed through her side. She almost cried out. She placed her hand on the site of the pain. Again the feeling came, this time more intensely. It was followed by a flash of cold fire behind her eyes.
No, no, no, she thought. Not now. Not here.
She needed to feed.
“Everybody having a good time?”
Jane looked up to see a smiling Walter standing before her. “Wonderful,” she said as the cramps hit her again.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Walter. “So, what were you all talking about?”
Jane winced as the pain returned and made it impossible to speak. She needed to get out of here before it got any worse. But how could she excuse herself without seeming rude or, worse, letting Miranda think she was giving up the battle?
Thinking quickly, she jostled Miranda’s arm, causing Miranda’s glass to tip precipitously. Wine poured onto her lap, staining her dress. Miranda let out a little shriek.
“I’m so sorry!” Jane exclaimed.
“It’s going to stain,” said Miranda angrily.
“Not if we blot it with seltzer,” Jane said. “Come with me.”
She stood and, gripping Miranda’s wrist, pulled the woman to her feet. Miranda let out another surprised squeal, no doubt shocked by Jane’s strength.
“You’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” Jane said to Walter and Sherman.
“Of course,” Walter said. “But make sure you’re back