Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [80]
A single page fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up. It was the title page. Constance, it read. By Jane Austen. Only her name had been crossed out and the name of Charlotte Brontë had been written above it.
Violet really had found it after all. And she knew that Jane was the true author. Not Brontë. “Then why?” she heard herself say.
“Because it’s the book I should have written.”
Jane whirled around to find Violet standing behind her in the doorway. She was looking at Jane with an expression of pure hatred.
“I should have known you would come after it,” she said as she turned and shut the door to the room. “I suppose I did know.”
“What do you mean, it’s the book you should have written?” Jane asked. “Do you write?”
Violet laughed. Her tone was icy. Jane noticed the spaniel wake from its dream and sit up. Now I have two of them to worry about, she thought.
“Do I write?” Violet said. “Yes, I do. And far better than Austen. At least until she wrote that.” She nodded at the manuscript in Jane’s hand. “That is a masterpiece.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, her manners trumping her fear and confusion.
Violet shook her head. “Only no one will believe you wrote it,” she said. “They’ll think I did.”
“You?” said Jane. “You said you believe that Charlotte Brontë wrote it.” She held up the title page and shook it.
Violet scowled. “Are you really so stupid?” she said. “Haven’t you figured out who I am?”
“I know who you think you are,” said Jane carefully. She thought about the figures seated around the kitchen table. “You think you’re Charlotte Brontë. Which is fine,” she added quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You idiot!” Violet snapped. “I don’t think I’m Charlotte. I am Charlotte!”
As Violet opened her mouth in a roar, Jane saw the two fangs that had descended from her upper jaw. No, she thought. It can’t be.
“Give me the manuscript and I might let you live,” said Violet. She took a step toward Jane.
Let me live? Jane thought. What is she talking about? Then it dawned on her—Violet didn’t know who she was. She thinks I’m ordinary Jane Fairfax, she realized.
“Wait!” Jane shouted, stalling for time. “I’ll give it to you. Just tell me where you found it. I … I thought I’d found the only copy.”
Violet laughed. “Of course you did,” she said. “How would you know that I got this one from Lord Byron? Well, I stole it from him, anyway.”
“Byron?” said Jane. She thought for a moment. “He turned you, didn’t he?”
It was Violet’s turn to look confused. “How do you know that?” she hissed.
Jane rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, who do you think I am?” She bared her teeth and let her fangs slip into place. “That bastard seems to have slept his way through all of English literature.”
“No,” said Charlotte, stepping back. “It can’t be. You can’t be.”
“Yes, well, it seems we both are,” Jane informed her. “So what do we do now?”
“Jasper!” Charlotte yelled in response. “Sic her!”
The spaniel leapt to its feet, ready to obey its master. Jane, seeing it coming for her, knew that she couldn’t get out of the room, especially with Charlotte standing in the way.
“Jasper, sit!” she said sternly
To her surprise, it worked. The dog sat and looked up at her expectantly.
“Jasper!” Charlotte cried.
Before Charlotte could complete her command, Jane rushed to the fireplace and threw the manuscript into it. The aged paper caught fire immediately and began to crumble.
“No!” Charlotte screamed. She ran over and pushed Jane out of the way, reaching into the fireplace to retrieve the papers.
Jane scrambled to her feet and backed away, watching as Charlotte tried to salvage what was left of the manuscript. It really is her, she admitted.
Charlotte had removed some of the papers and was trying to beat out the flames with her hands. As she did, a tongue of flame leapt up and kissed the sleeve of her dress. Instantly it blossomed with fire, which quickly consumed the material. Charlotte screamed in pain.
“Help me!” she shouted,