Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

pounding so hard I can almost hear it.
    “For a time I hoped—no, I believed we had an understanding. But then your manner changed so markedly. And, as you would not speak to me of it, I was left to conclude that my sister had had a hand in it. I am well aware that Mary has never forgiven me for the service I did her, though I know to her feelings it was no service at all.”
    He pauses for a moment, wiping the palms of his hands on his trouser legs. I have, of course, no idea what he’s talking about.
    “And then your accident. You know not how I longed to speak to your parents. But I dared not divulge to them what you appeared no longer to acknowledge as true. Then, when you recovered, I was determined to make you see me differently. I know not what I hoped to achieve; to change your dislike to indifference, perhaps. If more was possible, I could not let myself hope for it. But now I see a change; I mean, I hope I am not mistaken in believing that you do not dislike my company. That is a beginning, is it not?” “I—”
    “Yes?”
    “I guess I’m not sure what kind of misunderstanding—and I’m sorry if I was…I mean, I’m not sure I understand what—” “Let me be clear, then,” he says, enfolding my hands in his. “If you consent to be my wife, Jane, I promise to devote every waking moment to being worthy of your trust.”
    He looks so intense, so serious. What am I supposed to say? What do you say to a man you are supposed to know but don’t but he proposes to you anyway and he lives in a different time period? I peruse my mental catalogue of Jane Austen dialogue for possibilities. Emma’s I have no thoughts of matrimony at present might lead Edgeworth to attribute it, like Mr. Collins, to my wishing to increase his love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females. And Emma’s Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions is far too harsh. As is Lizzy Bennet’s You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. Even if I wanted to say yes, I couldn’t expect Jane Austen to do all the work. After all, what did Emma say to Mr. Knightley? Just what she ought, of course.
    Edgeworth’s squeezing my hands snaps me out of search mode. “Allow me to interpret this interesting silence as a favorable reply?”
    Oh my God. He is practically quoting Mr. Elton verbatim, and Emma hasn’t even been written yet.
    He raises my hands to his lips, but I extricate them before he can seal the deal. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—are you out of your mind?” And with that I am rushing down the gravel path as fast as I can without drawing attention from any of the nosy servants who might be working outside.
    What freaks me out more than Edgeworth’s anachronistic quoting of Austen is the fact that I’ve just been passionately proposed to. When has any man ever spoken to me like that? Not Frank, whose drunken mumblings of “Okay, you win—let’s get married” could hardly count as a proposal, let alone a declaration of love. But I was so starved for a commitment that all I could feel was gratitude the next morning that he didn’t plead temporary alcohol poisoning. As for any talk of wedding plans, “Just leave me out of it,” he said. “I’ll show up, but that’s where my participation ends.”
    Understatement. When not affecting the demeanor of a condemned man on his way to the gallows—or hooking up with the cake designer—Frank took every opportunity to condemn the institution of marriage as an affront to free will and a means of subjugating women. These professed attitudes were, of course, entirely inconsistent with his habitual manipulations that I fold his laundry, unclog the milk steamer on his espresso machine, or upgrade his software. “You’re so much more computer-literate than I am,” he’d plead, though as I discovered one night while checking my email on his