Michael Ford: Jane Bites Back

Nine years , she thought. That gives me about ten or so more before I have to think about it . It was possible she could get even more time out of Brakeston. After all, wasn’t forty the new thirty? She’d heard that somewhere recently. Clearly, whoever had said it hadn’t been forty-one for the past two centuries. “It’s more like forty is the new one hundred and ninety-two,” she informed the cat, who was curled up on her stomach asleep.

She drank the rest of the wine and polished off the chocolate while flipping through the channels on the television, watching bits and pieces of different shows until finally the only things on were infomercials for vegetable peelers and fat-burning pills. Then, her head dulled by the wine, she felt her eyes close.

Not asleep yet not quite awake, she traveled back to a night long ago. She was standing on a veranda, looking out at a lake. It was twilight, and it was raining. A thunderstorm shook the world around her, and the waves on the lake were violent and angry. Thunder rent the air and lightning split the sky. She was afraid but also exhilarated.

Nobody knew where she was. She had told them she was visiting a friend, but in truth she had never met the man in whose house she now stood. Not in person, anyway. But they had exchanged many long letters, and through those she had come to know him. When he’d suggested she visit his house on Lake Geneva she had hesitated only a moment before agreeing.

She felt free. Away from her home and her family she could do as she liked. That she had come to the house of one of the most scandalous figures of her time only added to her excitement. And he was just as beautiful and stimulating as she had imagined him to be.

“What are you doing out here?”

She turned to see him watching her. His dark hair was swept back, and his eyes seemed to stare directly into her soul. When he smiled her heart skipped a beat.

“Watching the storm,” she answered.

He walked toward her, his limp only barely noticeable. From what she’d heard of him, she’d expected it to be more pronounced. But nothing about him was exactly as he was described. It was as if he appeared in different forms to everyone he met.

“It suits you,” he said when he was standing beside her. “The storm, I mean.” He put an arm around her waist. “They all think of you as a quiet afternoon,” he said. “But inside you rage with passion, don’t you?”

She said nothing. How was it he could know her so well? Already she felt as if she’d known him for years, but it had been only a day since her arrival.

“The night shows stars and women in a better light,” he said as thunder rumbled overhead. “Come inside. You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

She allowed him to lead her back into the drawing room. But he didn’t stop there. Instead he led her down the hallway lined with portraits and landscapes and into a bedroom. His bedroom. She paused, looking at the enormous bed of carved mahogany, its sides hung with ruby red velvet draperies. The sheets were a tangled nest, as if he’d just risen from them. Throughout the room candles burned, warming the air and filling it with the faint scent of flowers.

“I can’t,” Jane told him, suddenly afraid.

“Of course you can,” he said. “There’s nothing to fear.”

She trembled as he turned and began undressing her. She closed her eyes for fear that looking at him would make her flee from the room. His fingers moved deftly over her body, slipping her dress from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. Then he was undoing the laces of her stays. She barely breathed as he took them from her. Finally, he removed her chemise and she stood before him naked.

When his hands cupped her breasts she gasped, and when his mouth touched her skin she felt her knees buckle. He caught her, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed. He placed her atop the sheets and stepped back. She watched through half-closed eyes as he removed his clothes. His chest was lean, his skin pale as milk. When he stepped from his trousers she glanced briefly at his manhood before looking away.

Then he was beside her, his hand stroking her as he told her how beautiful she was. His kisses covered her face, her neck, her breasts and stomach. His hands drew from her such pleasure that her breath caught in her throat.

In seconds he was on top of her, looking down into her face.

His eyes bore into her, and she could not look away. Outside the storm raged, the wind blowing one of the windows open and letting in the rain. At that moment he leaned down and kissed her. His mouth moved to her neck.

As his teeth pierced her flesh her eyes flew open.

Jane walked into Flyleaf Books carrying the very large, very hot, and very black coffee she’d picked up to banish the headache left behind by the wine. Worse than the headache was the lingering memory of her dream. I behaved so badly , she thought. Not at all like a lady .

“Nice of you to come in,” Lucy teased. She pushed a lock of long, curly black hair behind her ear.

In her early twenties, Lucy Sebring was sarcastic, funny, and fiercely intelligent. At her interview two years ago she’d told Jane that she’d left college to play in an all-girl punk rock band whose song titles were lifted from well-known feminist works. After six months on the road together the four of them had all started to get their periods at the same time. They’d broken up one night when, in front of an audience, the bass player deliberately launched into “The Female Eunuch” while the singer shouted the opening lyrics of “Ain’t I a Woman?” The resulting name-calling soon escalated into accusations and tears and ended spectacularly when the drummer, a mousy former philosophy major who had long passages from Valerie Solanas’s SCUM Manifesto tattooed on her body, stood up and screamed, “Betty Friedan can’t write for shit!” Lucy had related the story with such skill that Jane had hired her on the spot.

“By the way,” Lucy said as Jane took off her coat and hung it up, “you might want to take a look at today’s paper.” She nodded to the copy of the Daily Inquirer , which was open on the counter.

Jane picked it up and scanned the front page. “Meade College receives endowment from retired state senator?” she asked, reading the lead.

“Below that,” said Lucy.

Jane looked. “Brakeston Lady Beavers advance to district playoffs,” she read.

“Give me that,” said Lucy, snatching the paper from her. She began to read. “‘Noted author Melodie Gladstone was found wandering down Main Street early this morning after police received calls from several concerned citizens. According to Officer Pete Bear, one of two officers who responded to the scene, Gladstone appeared to be intoxicated or perhaps under the influence of an unknown substance. Gladstone is the author of the bestselling Waiting for Mr. Darcy and was in town for a reading at Flyleaf Books.’”

Lucy flipped the page. “There’s a picture,” she said.

Jane looked at the shot of Melodie Gladstone. She was in the street, flanked by the two police officers, each of whom gripped one of her arms. Her hair was a rat’s nest, and her eyes were ringed with mascara and eye shadow. Her face wore a lost expression, and her mouth was slightly open.