Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [29]
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
JANE PAUSED ON WALTER’S FRONT PORCH. JUST RELAX, she told herself. There’s no reason to worry.
But there was reason to worry, and no amount of wishing it away would calm her anxiety. She would simply have to get through the evening as best she could.
Walter answered the door moments after she’d rung the bell. He was wiping his hands on a dish towel, and an apron was tied around his waist. It was spattered with what appeared to be some kind of sauce.
“Come in,” Walter said, smiling and waving her inside. He appeared to be in a very good mood.
“Hello again.” Brian George stood in the living room, a glass of wine in his hand. A second glass, nearly empty, stood on the table beside the couch.
“Hello,” Jane said coolly as Walter helped her off with her coat and went to hang it in the hall closet.
“I’m so pleased you could join us,” Brian said, as if he and not Walter were the host.
“Yes,” said Jane vaguely, avoiding Brian’s gaze. “Well.”
Walter, oblivious to what was passing between them, returned with a glass and a bottle of wine. “Brian brought the most wonderful wine,” he said as he poured a glass for Jane. “I’ve already had two glasses.”
That explains the good mood, Jane thought as she accepted the glass. She hesitated a moment before taking a sip. Walter was right; it was delicious.
“Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” she said.
Brian nodded. “I brought a few bottles with me,” he replied. “It’s my favorite.”
Yes, Jane thought, I remember. It was also one of the most coveted wines in the world, far too expensive for a poet to afford. She wondered if Walter realized what he was drinking.
“Have a seat,” Walter suggested.
Jane waited until Brian took a seat on the couch, then seated herself in one of the armchairs on the side of the coffee table opposite him. Walter took the other chair.
“Tell me, Jane, how long have you lived in Brakeston?” Brian inquired.
“Nearly ten years,” Jane said, her voice clipped.
“Ten years,” Brian repeated. “Long enough to be considered a local, I think.”
Walter chuckled. “Oh, she’s definitely one of us,” he said. “It’s like she’s lived here forever.”
“So it seems,” said Brian. He looked once more at Jane. “You’re from the UK, though, if I’ve identified your accent correctly. Have you been long in the colonies?”
“Since I was a child,” Jane answered.
A sly smile crossed Brian’s face. “Then you don’t miss your homeland?” he said.
Jane shook her head. “I was quite young when I moved here,” she told him. “I don’t remember very much about it.”
“Have you been to the States before?” Walter asked Brian. He was pouring himself more wine. He offered the bottle to Brian, who accepted.
“No,” said Brian. “This is my first time here. My family has lived in England for a very long time.” He looked at Jane. “Have you any family left in England?”
“No,” Jane said, meeting his gaze. “They’re all dead, I’m afraid.”
Brian took a sip of wine. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
A buzzer sounded in another room, and Walter jumped up. “That will be dinner,” he said. “Everybody to the table!”
As he hurried to the kitchen, Jane and Brian stood. For a moment they faced each other. “What are you doing here?” Jane hissed.
“I thought Walter mentioned that,” said Brian. “I’ve come to soak up the local flavor.”
Jane gave a short, sharp laugh. “How fortunate for us,” she said. “Are you certain that’s all?”
Brian reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Jane pulled away. “I had hoped to renew an old acquaintance,” he said.
“Dinner’s on!” Walter called from the dining room.
Jane turned and walked away, the sting of Brian’s touch still burning on her cheek. In the dining room, Walter was placing a dish of peas on the table, which already held a roast on a platter, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and the usual assortment of cutlery and glassware.
“You sit here,” Walter said to Jane, indicating a place on the left. “And