Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [30]
They all sat, and Walter picked up the platter of beef. “I hope you like it rare,” he said as he passed it to Brian. “I can’t stand overcooked meat.”
“This looks perfect,” said Brian as he helped himself to several pieces before passing the dish to Jane. “I do like my beef on the bloody side.”
Jane took a small piece of roast, then accepted the peas from Walter. As she in turn passed them to Brian, their fingers touched. The shock that passed between them startled her, and she dropped the bowl. Before it hit the table, Brian’s hand shot out and caught it. Jane snatched her hand back and held it in her lap, rubbing it with her other one. Her skin still tingled.
“Jane, Brian is another Austen fan,” Walter said. “I told him he should talk to you.”
“Indeed,” Brian remarked. “Tell me, Jane, what is your opinion of the Austen craze that seems to have possessed your country?” He paused. “My apologies. I mean, of course, this country.”
Jane stabbed at the piece of meat on her plate. The juice from the beef was pink with blood, and she felt her mouth water. Before answering Brian, she took a bite and chewed it thoroughly, savoring the taste.
“I think the books appeal to readers of all times,” she answered.
Brian nodded. “Women do like the romances,” he said.
Jane flushed. “They’re more than just romances,” she said. “And their appeal is hardly limited to women.”
Brian waved his fork in the air. “Of course,” he said. “I myself thoroughly enjoy her work. But surely you agree that her subject matter is rather … lightweight, if you will.” Instead of waiting for Jane to reply, he continued. “The critic G. H. Lewes once told Charlotte Brontë that she should study Austen’s work in order to correct her own shortcomings as an author. Do you know what her response was?”
Jane snorted. “She said that Austen’s work was like, and I quote, an ‘accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers—but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy—no open country—no fresh air—no blue hill—no bonny beck,’” she said tartly.
“I see you’ve read the correspondence,” Brian commented. “And that you disagree.”
“I certainly do,” said Jane. “What nonsense. Just because Austen’s heroines aren’t flinging themselves all over the moors and mooning over disfigured men and being tormented by madwomen and burning up in fires and who knows what other foolishness …” Her voice trailed off. She took up her wineglass and drank deeply. Charlotte Brontë, she thought. Of all people.
To her annoyance she saw that Walter and Brian were laughing. “What?” she said.
“You just sounded so irate,” said Walter. “Almost as if Austen were a dear friend. Which I suppose she is, really.”
Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I suppose Jane Eyre is a good novel,” she said. “In its way. Personally, I find it devoid of warmth and overripe with melodrama.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing Austen died before Miss Brontë passed judgment on her,” Brian suggested. “The chill that would surely have pervaded the drawing room had they ever met would have been formidable.”
“I’d very much like to see that,” said Walter. Looking at Jane, he added, “Or perhaps we could get you to debate that Brontë scholar. What’s her name?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Violet Grey. She’s not an Austen fan either.”
“I’ve met Grey,” Brian said. “And I agree, that would be interesting. Very interesting.”
Jane refused to encourage further commentary on the subject. Instead, she inspected the peas on her plate with great curiosity. “Is this mint in the peas?” she asked Walter.
He nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “How ever did you think of it?”
“Do you write?” interrupted Brian.
Jane looked at him. “I?” she said innocently.
Brian smiled. “You seem to have such passion for novels,” he answered. “I thought perhaps you yourself might be a writer.”
“When I was younger I wrote a bit,” Jane said. “Nothing serious. Now I’m content to sell