The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [248]
“Not at all,” I said, attempting to console her. “Narratively speaking, without your actions there wouldn’t be much of a story.”
Mrs. Dashwood took a handkerchief from her cuff and dried her eyes, which, as far as I could see, had not even the smallest tear in them.
“You are so right, Miss Next. Thank you for your kind words—but if you hear anyone speaking ill of me, please tell them that it was my husband’s decision—I tried to stop him, believe me!”
“Of course,” I said, reassuring her. I made my excuses and left to find Miss Havisham.
“We call it minor character syndrome,” explained Miss Havisham after I rejoined her. “Quite common when an essentially minor character has a large and consequential part. She and her husband have allowed us the use of this room ever since the trouble with Confusion and Conviviality. In return we make all Jane Austen books a matter of our special protection; we don’t want anything like that to happen again. There is a satellite office in the basement of Elsinore castle run by Mr. Falstaff— that’s him over there.”
She pointed to an overweight man with a florid face who was in conversation with another agent. They both laughed uproariously at something Falstaff had said.
“Who is he talking to?”
“Vernham Deane, romantic lead in one of Daphne Farquitt’s novels. Mr. Deane is a stalwart member of Jurisfiction, so we don’t hold it against him—”
“WHERE IS HAVISHAM!?” bellowed a voice like thunder. The doors burst open and a very disheveled Red Queen hopped in. The whole room fell silent. Except, that is, for Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:
“Bargain hunting just doesn’t suit some people, now does it?”
The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realizing that all they were witnessing was another round in a long and very personal battle, carried on talking.
The Red Queen had a large and painful-looking black eye, and two of her fingers were in a splint. The sales at Booktastic had not been kind to her.
“What’s on your mind, your majesty?” asked Havisham in an even tone.
“Meddle in my affairs again,” growled the Red Queen, “and I won’t be responsible for my actions!”
I shuffled uncomfortably and wanted to move away from this embarrassing confrontation. But since I thought someone should be on hand to separate them if there was a fight, I remained where I was.
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, your majesty?” said Havisham, always maintaining due regal respect. “It was only a set of Farquitts, after all!”
“A boxed set!” replied the Red Queen coldly. ‘You deliberately took the gift I planned to give to my own dear beloved husband. And do you know why?”
Miss Havisham pursed her lips and was silent.
“Because you can’t bear it that I’m happily married!”
“Rubbish!” returned Miss Havisham angrily. “We beat you fair and square!”
“Ladies and, er, ladies and majesties, please!” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Do we have to argue here at Norland Park?”
“Ah yes!” said the Red Queen. “Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?”
“Don’t believe this,” murmured Miss Havisham. “It’s all poppycock. Her majesty is a verb short of a sentence.”
“I’ll tell you why,” went on the Red Queen angrily, “because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!”
Miss Havisham was silent.
“Face the facts, Havisham. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steeles, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon or Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren’t you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?”
“Deluded,” replied Havisham, then added after a short pause: “Well then, your majesty, since we are in a questioning vein, just what is it, exactly, that you rule over?”
The Red Queen turned scarlet—which was tricky, as she was quite red to begin with—and pulled a small dueling pistol from her pocket. Havisham was quick and also drew her weapon, and there they stood, quivering with rage, guns pointing at each other. Fortunately the sound of a bell tingling