Michael Ford: Jane Goes Batty

She had to admit, however, that despite her relentlessly snarky tone the blog’s author was not stupid. Her name was Wen Bao, and if her biography was to be believed, she was thirty-three and lived in Fargo, North Dakota. What she did there was unclear, but Jane liked to imagine that she worked some dreary minimum-wage job simply in order to afford the books about which she wrote. As an ear piercer in a mall, perhaps, or a gift shop clerk at the Roger Maris Museum.

This was unkind of her, Jane knew, but it allowed her to not dislike Wen Bao as much as she might otherwise. She had disliked her upon first encountering the blog. That was only natural given her maternal feelings toward Constance . But after a few days (or perhaps it was weeks, or months) she had been able to read the post with a little more objectivity, and when she did so she was able to see that what Wen Bao had so succinctly stated were the very fears she herself had about her novel.

No, not fears. Truths. For she knew—had always known—that this novel was different from her others. But that was because she herself was changed. She had written Constance in a fever brought on by her infatuation with Byron. Their correspondence had awakened things in her, and these feelings found their way into her pen. Constance was, after all, her love letter to him. It was only natural that some of his infamous melancholy should color it.

And then there was what happened at Lake Geneva.

“They can hardly expect me to remain myself,” Jane told Jasper. “Not after that. And yet they don’t want me to change. They like me the way I am. Was. Not that they even know that I’m me. Still, it hardly seems fair to expect a woman to stand absolutely still for two hundred years. I’m not Jane Austen any longer, at least not their Jane Austen.”

She’d seen this before. She remembered when Amy Heckerling had borrowed liberally from Emma in creating her movie Clueless . A certain segment of Jane’s readership had cried foul, going so far as to say that Jane would be scandalized by what had been done to her novel.

“But I rather liked it,” said Jane as Jasper got up and padded out of the room. “How are they to know what I would and would not like, anyway? It’s not as if they know me. Really, knowing a writer through that writer’s books is about as likely as understanding the inner workings of a clock by listening to its chime.”

Still, she had fooled a great number of people. More than one critic had compared Constance favorably to her previous books. But not Wen Bao , Jane thought. She saw through me .

It occurred to her now—and she was positively astonished that it hadn’t already—that perhaps the change in tone of Constance was what had caused the novel to be rejected so many times. Her earlier novels had brought into popularity a certain kind of story, one that Constance was not. Well, not completely, but enough that it was troubling to editors. At least for the first twenty or so years , Jane thought. I can only assume that later editors simply hated it. Until Kelly .

The phone rang. Jane, glancing at the clock, saw that it was after eleven. Who’s calling at this hour? she wondered as she picked up.

“I hope it’s not too late.” Kelly said.

“No,” said Jane, suddenly seized with a panic that he was calling to ask about the undelivered manuscript. She tapped her fingers on the keyboard loudly. “I’m just writing.”

“Good,” Kelly replied. “Because that’s why I’m calling.”

Jane’s anxiety doubled. “It’s coming along very well now,” she said. “I’ve had a breakthrough. I think I can have it to you before Labor—”

“I’m not checking up on you,” interrupted Kelly.

Jane hesitated. “You’re not?” she asked.

“Do you really think I’d call you this late to see how the book is coming along?” Kelly said.

“Well …” Jane said slowly. “You did say you were calling about the book.”

“I did,” Kelly agreed. “But it’s not about when it will be finished. That will be up to your new editor to worry about.”

Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Then Kelly’s words sank in. “My new editor?” she said.

“That’s the big news,” said Kelly. “I’ve got a new position. I’m going to be an agent at Waters-Harding. Actually, I’m going to be your new agent. I made that part of the deal.”

Jane was at a loss for words. “Congratulations,” she managed.

“You don’t sound very excited,” said Kelly.

“Oh, I am,” Jane said. “Very excited. It’s just that I didn’t know you were looking to leave editing.”

“I wasn’t, really,” said Kelly. “But last week I had a meeting with Knut Amundsen about another author they represent and out of the blue he asked if I’d ever considered being an agent. I guess he was impressed with my negotiating skills. I said I hadn’t given it much thought, and he said I should. Then he offered me a job.”

“That really is wonderful,” Jane told him, her composure regained. “I know you’ll be a wonderful agent.” She paused a moment so as not to appear anxious. “So who will my new editor be?”

“A wonderful young woman,” Kelly said. “Jessica Abernathy. She comes from Fourth Street Books. She adores Constance . Didn’t stop raving about it the whole interview.”

“Jessica Abernathy,” Jane said. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“She’s young,” Kelly continued. “But she’s edited some really good books. I really think you’ll—”

“Jessica Abernathy!” Jane exclaimed. “Of Fourth Street Books?”

“Yes,” said Kelly. “Do you know her?”

Indeed I do , Jane thought. She’s number 116 .

“No,” she said, trying to calm herself. “I must have seen her name somewhere.” As in on her rejection letter , she fumed. Adores Constance my foot. I’m sure she said it just to get the job .

But she couldn’t tell Kelly that. It would seem petty of her. Besides, it was possible Jessica Abernathy had never even read Jane’s manuscript. She could have just rejected it out of hand, then not recognized it when she read the finished product.

It will be all right , she told herself. You can handle this .

“When do you start?” she asked Kelly.

“Two weeks,” Kelly replied. “Then I’ll be your agent. We’ll get you a much better deal than the one you got last time.” He laughed at his little joke.

Jane tried to laugh, but ended up coughing.

“Are you okay?” Kelly asked.

“I just swallowed a little wine,” said Jane. “I’ll be fine.”

I’ll be fine , she repeated to herself as Kelly continued talking excitedly about his new job. I’ll be fine .

Twenty minutes later she hung up, having listened to only about half of what Kelly had said. His excitement had only deepened her sadness, and now she felt as she had that first night sitting in the balcony at the opera. She didn’t want to lose Kelly as her editor. She particularly didn’t want to have to work with Jessica Abernathy.

She turned the music back on and sat back in her chair, her eyes closed. Whatever incentive she’d had to work on her novel was now gone. What was the point? Jessica Abernathy was going to hate it anyway.

Jane listened as Lord Ruthven wove his spell on the doomed Janthe. Despite knowing it would always end the same way, Jane couldn’t help but hope for the girl’s salvation. As Ruthven sang Jane translated his words in her head.