Sally O'Rourke - The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

“The moonlight?” Cassandra, who could always tell when Jane was lying, moved to block her way, forcing Jane to look directly into her steady gray eyes. “Jane, what have you been up to?”

Jane shrugged, attempting to inject a carefree note into her voice. “I have heard it said that Lord Byron highly commends the moonlight, when he is courting the muse,” she replied brightly.

“And I have heard that the wicked young lord goes abroad at night only to court ladies of dubious reputation,” Cassandra retorted. “What have you been doing, sister?”

Once again Jane felt her tears threatening to burst forth. She shook her head stubbornly. “I have done nothing either very dubious or very wicked,” she replied. And in her mind’s eye she glimpsed the handsome features of the man she had gone to meet. “I was not given an opportunity,” she murmured with regret.

Cassandra’s mouth fell open. But before she could find adequate words to express her shock, Jane kissed her on the cheek and pushed past her. “Good night, Cass,” she whispered as she reached the door to her room.

Cassandra’s lined features softened and she regarded her younger sister with concern. “Dearest Jane, you know you can confide in me,” she said softly. “Please tell me what has happened?”

“Oh, Cass, I am not yet certain,” Jane replied, feeling the salty wetness beginning to sting her cheeks. “Perhaps my foolish heart has been broken at last.” She sniffled and managed a little smile. “I shall have to reflect on it and let you know in the morning.”

Then without another word she entered her bedroom and firmly shut the door behind her, leaving Cassandra alone in the hallway to wonder.

Lit only by her single candle, the large, cheerful room that Jane loved so well by day was now a warren of leaping shadows. They danced impishly across the flowered wallpaper and pooled deep in the corners behind the bed as she walked to her mirrored vanity by the fireplace. Placing the candle on the table, Jane sat and began slowly taking down her elaborately curled hair, allowing the shining dark tresses to fall loose.

When she was done, she regarded her dim reflection in the mirror, raising one pale hand to touch the silvery-looking glass with her fingertips. “Only one of us is real,” she said quietly to that other Jane who sat gazing at her from the glass, “the other is but an illusion. The question is, which am I?”

Removing the undelivered letter from her gown, she placed it on the dressing table before her and stared down at the address she had so neatly written there a lifetime ago. She was startled from her reverie by an insistent knocking at the door.

“Jane, do let me in,” Cassandra entreated. “I will not sleep a wink until you have told me what has happened.”

“What has happened?” Jane repeated in a voice so soft that only she could hear. “That, dear sister, is one thing that I will never tell you.”

She scooped up the letter as Cassandra knocked again. “Jane!” she called, demanding now to be let in.

“Just a moment, Cass.” With a heavy sigh Jane pushed back from the vanity, bowing to the inevitability of admitting her sister. Ever since they were small children Cass had always been the one who had soothed her hurts and given her the courage to go on. That would never change, certainly not now that he was gone.

Picking up the letter, she looked quickly around the dimly lit room. “And what am I to do with this?” she wondered aloud. For she could not reveal its contents, even to Cass, nor did she dare destroy it because of the secret it contained.

Jane caught her own worried reflection looking back at her from the shimmering depths of the mirror as Cass’s knocking grew louder.

New York City

Present day

“Oh, now I do like this!” Eliza Knight exclaimed, though there was no one within earshot.

She brushed a thick layer of dust from the mirror of the scarred little vanity table and peered into the silvery glass. The sudden appearance of her own reflection startled her and she paused for a moment to regard the hazy image. The familiar face looking back at her was, she thought, if not exactly beautiful, then slightly exotic, with its high cheekbones, straight if somewhat narrow nose and full lips. Her dark eyes were, she confirmed, still her best feature, though she also liked her glossy black hair, despite the longish, flyaway cut she’d let her hairdresser talk her into a couple of weeks before.

Grimacing at the hair, Eliza stepped back to take a better look at the old-fashioned rosewood dressing table. In the hour or so that she had been poking through the clutter of the shabby West Side antiques warehouse that was allegedly open only to the “Trade,” the vanity was the only thing that had caught her eye. She had spied it just moments earlier, crammed between an art deco floor lamp and a Jetsons pink 1950s Formica coffee table, and had immediately felt herself drawn to it.

Taking her eyes from the dulled mirror, Eliza scanned the rows of dusty merchandise stretching in every direction like a bad Cubist painting. She finally spotted Jerry Shelburn three aisles away. He appeared to be taking stock of an ancient gasoline pump with a cracked glass top.

“Jerry,” she called excitedly, “I want your opinion. Come over here and take a look at this!”

Jerry had gotten them admitted to the wholesaler’s warehouse through one of his clients, who ran a small freight-forwarding business. Now he smiled good-naturedly and waved back. He carefully replaced the brass nozzle on the gas pump before starting toward her, the round lenses of his wire-framed glasses glittering like little moons beneath the cold fluorescents of the overhead fixtures.

Eliza sighed inwardly as she watched him picking his way through the maze of old furniture, noting the extraordinary care he took not to soil his Old Navy khakis and spotless cotton pullover. They had met two years earlier, through an artist friend of hers, when Eliza had been looking for someone to manage the small investment portfolio her father had left her. Jerry had turned out to be an excellent manager, increasing the value of her stocks by nearly thirty percent in the first year and then shrewdly using the capital to secure the down payment on the condo that also served as her studio, thus eliminating more than half the taxes she’d been paying as a renter.

Somehow while all of that was going on they had started dating and then, occasionally, sleeping together. It was marginally comfortable and definitely low maintenance on both sides. There had been a few times in recent months when she had felt as though the relationship was either going to progress into something more serious or end altogether, and had to admit that it wouldn’t really bother her that much if it did end. Feeling slightly mercenary, she consoled herself with the thought that at least her net worth had never been higher.

Turning her attention back to the vanity table, Eliza dragged it out into the aisle and slowly ran her strong artist’s hands over the marred top. Despite its numerous scratches, the old wood felt comfortably warm to her touch. The slightly formal, squared-off design vaguely reminded her of a Georgian piece she’d seen in one of her antique guidebooks, and she wondered how old it really was.

“So, what rare treasure have you uncovered?”

Eliza raised her eyes to the mirror and saw Jerry adjusting his glasses to peer over her shoulder.

“Look,” she said, stepping away to afford him a clear view of the vanity, “isn’t it adorable?”

“I thought you were looking for a floor lamp,” he said, barely glancing at the table.

“I was,” Eliza replied peevishly, “but I really like this. It’s kind of charming, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm…” Frowning as if he’d just been served a piece of tainted fish, Jerry leaned over and examined a tiny pink sticker that Eliza hadn’t noticed adhering to the side of the vanity. “At six hundred dollars it’s not that charming,” he sniffed. “Besides, the mirror’s a mess.” Jerry straightened and gave her a patronizing wink. “As your investment counselor, I heartily recommend going with a lamp.”

Fresh from a scalding shower, swaddled in her threadbare, old terry robe with her hair wrapped in a towel, Eliza stepped barefoot into her bedroom and regarded the prized vanity, which looked right at home among the mismatched collection of antique furniture filling the room.

“I really want your honest opinion now,” she said, turning to look at the figure sprawled carelessly across the colorful patchwork quilt covering her Victorian-era four-poster bed. “Do you think I made an awful mistake?”

Wickham, an overweight gray tabby with a severe personality disorder, spread his considerable jaws wide and yawned to demonstrate his complete indifference to her question.

Not to be so easily deterred, Eliza scooped up the cat in her arms and crossed to the corner by the window, where Jerry had somewhat sullenly deposited the antique dressing table two hours earlier. The hazed rectangular mirror stood on the floor beside the table, leaning against the wall. After admiring the newly acquired pieces for a moment Eliza sank cross-legged onto the carpet before them, cradling the squirming cat in her lap.

“I think the whole problem with Jerry and our relationship,” she explained to Wickham, “can be summed up in this table. Because when I look at it I see something warm and beautiful. But all Jerry sees is a piece of used furniture. You’re a creature of discerning taste. What do you see, Wickham?”

Eliza smiled and scratched the special spot between Wickham’s ears. The cat’s yellow eyes rolled back in his head and he stiffened and moaned in ecstasy.

“My point exactly!” Eliza gloated. “Because, unlike you and me, Jerry has no soul, just a bottom line.” She released her grip on Wickham, who leaped out of her lap and settled himself comfortably on the carpet.

“It really is a lovely piece,” she said, gently reaching to stroke the satiny finish of an unscarred table leg. It needed major cleaning and some linseed oil but she was pretty sure that it was very old.

As Eliza carefully removed the single drawer from the table, setting it on the floor before her, she noticed that it was lined with now-faded pink wallpaper that still retained a floral pattern. Ignoring the liner, she turned the drawer around and examined the outside corners, which had been fitted together without nails.

The slightly irregular dovetails holding the sides of the drawer together meant they were obviously cut by hand, reinforcing her belief that the table was old, crafted before the age of machine-made, mass-produced furniture.

Eliza smiled ruefully, for though she was entirely correct about the dovetails, she had also exhausted virtually the entire store of knowledge she remembered from the NYU evening extension class she’d taken two years earlier on appraising antique furniture.

Nevertheless, she turned the drawer over to inspect the bottom, vaguely recalling something about being sure the wood colors matched or didn’t match or something. The pink liner fluttered to the floor, coming to rest upside down on the carpet.

Interested at last, Wickham swatted at the crumbling paper. Eliza shooed him away and then stared in surprise at the liner. For adhering to its underside was another strip of yellowing paper densely covered in cramped black type.

“Look, Wickham, it’s a piece of…old newspaper!” she exclaimed, squinting to read the oddly shaped and embellished letters. “Listen to this,” she breathed, tracing with her index finger a heavier line of print bannered across the top of the sheet: “THE HAMPSHIRE CHRONICLE, 7 APRIL, 1810…My God, that was almost two hundred years ago!”

Her attention now riveted by the partial sheet of ancient newsprint, Eliza carefully lifted it onto the top of the vanity and spent the next few minutes curiously poring over several tightly packed columns of ads for “Gentlemen’s best quality silk cravats,” “beneficial beef extracts,” “drayage and forwarding” (whatever they might be), and a host of other mysterious products with names like Gerlich’s Female Potion, calibrated boiling thermometers and India rubber goods.