Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page B

determined to solve.”
    “That makes two of us, Mr. Edgeworth.”
    And two of something else as well: a pair of white butterflies are suddenly dancing in the air, right in front of my face. They take off and are replaced by a lone orange-and-black spotted one, which promptly lands on my dress. I move my hand to touch it, but Edgeworth gently stops my hand with his.
    “Its wings are too fragile to be touched.”
    Instant déjà vu. Where did I hear that before? Suddenly I’m shivering in my thin dress. It was warm and sunny just a moment ago, but now the light is muted and dull. I look up and see that steel-gray clouds have moved across the sun. A chill breeze makes me wish for a shawl. My feet take me back to the house, and Edgeworth walks beside me in silence.
    When we enter the drawing room, Mrs. Mansfield has miraculously recovered from her headache. Her eyes above the dimpled smile are diamond hard, narrowing as she scans my face for information.
    When Edgeworth leaves within fifteen minutes of polite chitchat—and without returning to the drawing room after he goes off to Mr. Mansfield’s atelier to say good-bye—she scrutinizes me but says nothing. But as soon as she spies through the window Edgeworth riding off on his horse, she rushes off in the direction of the atelier.
    I escape to my room, but Mrs. Mansfield is soon outside my door.
    “Your father tells me,” she says, “that Mr. Edgeworth bade him good-bye and promised to call on us when he returns from town.”
    I say nothing.
    Mrs. M puts a hand on her hip. “Well?”
    I sit at the dressing table and pick up a hairbrush.
    “Did Mr. Edgeworth make you an offer of marriage?”
    I can’t do much with the brush, as my hair is up.
    “I asked you a question, Jane.”
    “He did, and I said no.”
    Her eyes bore into me. “You what?”
    I smile at her sweetly. “I said it nicely.”
    Mrs. Mansfield’s face is an alabaster mask. “Tell me, Jane. Do you really think anyone else as amiable or rich will ever make you an offer of marriage? You are thirty years old. And your portion, while not insignificant, is nothing to what a man of Mr. Edgeworth’s fortune might rightfully expect. Yet you dare to refuse him. You dare to disoblige me.”
    I choke back a reply, my stomach tightening. Why do I care what this woman thinks?
    “And when your father dies? What will become of you? Do you wish to live out your days in this house, the maiden aunt who looks after her brother’s children—may God grant him a son and heir—because you were too obstinate to marry when you had the chance?”
    I look at her with the same level gaze she has trained on me. I will not let her get to me.
    “Well?” she says.
    I shrug my shoulders. “You have it all figured out already.”
    “Except why you refused him. I demand to know why.”
    “No reason at all. Only that I don’t love him.”
    “What has love to do with it?”
    “You know, that might make a good title for a song.” I’m tempted to launch into my best Tina Turner rendition, but I think better of it, especially because Mrs. M is already looking at me like a cockroach she is debating whether or not to grind under her heel.
    “I hope you realize what you have done. He will never pay his addresses to you again.” And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves.
    “He’ll be back,” I say to the empty room.
    Actually, I’m not so sure. He may have left intending to return, but who knows what might happen. His bruised male ego might not want to risk any more rejection. And he could meet someone else in the meantime.
    Oh well, too bad then. If he doesn’t come back, I’ll deal with my regrets, if by then I feel any. Or if I’m even still here. Edgeworth will be gone for two weeks; this whole charade has to end by then. I will not allow myself to think otherwise.
    Which is easier said than done.

Thirteen
    I t is now day five of the hostage-in-another-body crisis, and this particular body is starting to