“You did what?” said Lucy.
“Charlotte Brontë,” Jane repeated. “I killed her. Well, I suppose you could say she killed herself. It’s not like I pushed her into the fireplace or anything. But I do feel slightly responsible.”
“You’re going to have to back up,” said Lucy.
Jane told her the whole story, beginning with the confrontation at the conference and ending with her escape from the kitchen.
“What happened to Jasper?” Lucy asked when Jane was finished.
“I don’t know,” Jane told her. “He ran off.”
“You have to find him!” Lucy insisted. “He’s probably scared to death.”
“He lived with Charlotte and her three mummified siblings,” Jane reminded her. “If that didn’t scare him, nothing will.”
“At least go back and look for him,” said Lucy. “Please?”
Jane sighed. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go back. But not right now. I can barely walk. Anyway, I didn’t call you to talk about the dog.”
“Why did you call?” asked Lucy.
“Did you hear the part about me killing Charlotte Brontë?” Jane said. “What am I going to do about it?”
“Why do you have to do anything?” Lucy replied. “If she’s dead, she’s dead. It’s not as if her family will be looking for her.”
Jane hadn’t considered that. “You’re right,” she said, feeling slightly better. “And technically, she was already dead anyway.”
“Would fire really kill her?” Lucy asked.
“It would,” said Jane. “Actually, pretty much anything that would kill you would kill her. I mean us.”
“Anything?” said Lucy.
“Well, not anything,” Jane clarified. “We’re immune to diseases. I don’t know why, but my guess is that this whole thing—what makes us what we are—is some kind of virus and that it attacks anything else it comes in contact with. I knew a scientist once who—”
Lucy made a snoring sound. “I didn’t ask for a biology lesson,” she said.
“Cheeky,” Jane said. “At any rate, disease is out. Also old age, as we stay at the age we were when we turned. But pretty much everything else can do us in.”
“Garlic?” Lucy suggested.
“You’ve seen me eat hummus,” Jane reminded her.
“Holy water?”
“Only if we drown in it,” said Jane. “I’m talking about the usual misadventures that kill people off. Plane crashes. Being impaled. Losing one’s head. That sort of thing.”
“What do you know?” Lucy said. “I thought vampires were all magical, like unicorns and leprechauns.”
“I wouldn’t call it magic,” Jane replied. “And we have to be just as careful as you do.”
“What if you lose just an arm?” asked Lucy. “Or let’s say a toe. Will it grow back?”
“We’re not geckos,” Jane said curtly. “But yes, we do have some interesting … restorative abilities. Nevertheless, it’s possible for us to die if the damage is comprehensive enough.”
“Then let’s assume Charlotte really is extra crispy,” Lucy said.
“Must you say things like that?”
“Sorry,” Lucy apologized. “It’s just that talking about Charlotte Brontë being dead is a little weird. Anyway, let’s assume that she really is gone for good. Like I said, I don’t see the problem. Except for poor Jasper. You will go look for him, right?”
“I said I would,” said Jane. “But what about me?”
“Go back to the conference tomorrow,” said Lucy. “Pretend nothing unusual has happened. As far as anyone else knows, you were in your room asleep all night.”
Jane considered this. Was it really that simple? She tried to find a flaw in Lucy’s argument, but could find nothing. No one else had heard her conversation with Violet Grey. No one had seen her follow Violet home. And certainly no one else knew that Violet was really Charlotte Brontë.
“What about the manuscript expert?” Jane said.
“There isn’t one,” Lucy told her. “Honestly, you’d think you’d never written a book before. Charlotte made that up when she thought you were a normal person. I mean a mortal. I mean not a vampire. God, this is so confusing.”
“That’s right,” Jane agreed. “She wanted me to think she had expert proof.” She heard herself laugh. “She didn’t know about me,” she said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”
“Why?” said Lucy. “You didn’t know about her either.”
“Must you take the fun out of everything?” Jane said.
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “Setting fire to the woman who wrote Jane Eyre is big fun.”
“Well, it is sort of ironic when you think about it,” said Jane. “Bertha Mason and all that.”
“I can tell you’re feeling better about things,” Lucy said. “I’m glad I could help. Now go look for Jasper. I want a progress report tomorrow.”
Jane hung up. She stood and started toward the bathroom to take a nice hot bath. Then she thought about Jasper, alone in the dark, nowhere to go. She imagined having to lie to Lucy about checking on him.
“Oh, hell,” she cursed as she bent to retrieve her shoes.
This time she took a cab, asking the driver to drop her off a few blocks from Charlotte’s house. Or rather, what was left of Charlotte’s house. As Jane got closer she saw that the fire had done rather a good job of destroying the home. The only thing still standing was the brick chimney, rising from the blackened bones of the house like a giant finger flipping Jane the bird. Two fire trucks blocked the street, and a handful of firefighters stood on the sidewalk looking at the ruins. It was raining again. The piles of charred wood and ash sent sickly strings of smoke into the night sky, and the air smelled acrid and dirty.
Jane avoided the firemen as she skirted the trucks and went to the other side of the street. She didn’t want anyone to see her, lest she somehow be connected to the fire. She wondered if they’d yet found the bodies of Charlotte and her siblings. Judging from the scene, pretty nearly everything in the house had been incinerated.
Now that she was there she realized that she had no idea how to begin going about looking for Jasper. She’d sort of expected to find him sitting on the sidewalk looking forlornly at what used to be his home. But other than the firefighters and a handful of neighbors gawking at the sight, the area around the house was empty. Finding the dog was, she feared, going to be impossible.
“Jasper,” she called softly. “Are you here?”
To her surprise, the spaniel came darting out from behind a neighboring house. He came up to Jane, tail wagging, and sat down in front of her. He gave a little woof and cocked his head, ears alert.
“Hello,” Jane said. “I’m sorry about your house,” she added after a moment.
Jasper woofed again. He and Jane stared at each other for a long moment as Jane thought about what to do with him. She hadn’t expected to find him, so her thoughts on the matter had never progressed beyond that point. Now she considered her options. She could take him to a shelter. That would be the easiest. For me, anyway, she thought.
The longer she looked into Jasper’s brown eyes, the more sure she was that she couldn’t possibly abandon him. It wasn’t his fault he’d had the misfortune to live with the Brontës. And in a way he had helped Jane during her confrontation with Charlotte.
“Oh, all right,” said Jane. “Come on.”
She and Jasper walked to the far end of the street, where Jane managed to get a cab to take them back to the hotel. She had the driver stop at a small grocery, where she picked up some dog food and two large plastic bowls. While she was in the store Jasper sat obediently outside, waiting as if he’d always lived with Jane. She found his devotion appealing, and despite everything, she found herself warming to him. He was, she decided, a very amiable dog.
Getting him into the hotel proved not to be a problem, as no one was at the desk. Once in her room, Jane filled one bowl with water from the tap and opened
the bag of food, which she poured into the second bowl. Jasper dove in hungrily, devouring the contents of the food bowl within minutes. Then he took a long drink and, his muzzle dripping, jumped onto the bed and curled up at the foot of it.
The poor beast is exhausted, Jane thought. She left him there to sleep and went into the bathroom, where she finally enjoyed the shower she’d been craving for hours. When she was done, she returned to the bedroom, donned her nightgown, and got into bed. Jasper, waking up, came to the top of the bed and lay alongside Jane, his back pressing against her. After hesitating a moment, she stroked his ears.
“Sweet dreams,” she whispered in his ear, but he was already asleep.
When she awoke, her face was buried in the fur of Jasper’s neck. He himself had not stirred all night, but when Jane sat up he was instantly awake, yawning and stretching his legs.
“What am I going to do with you?” Jane asked him. “I suppose I’m going to have to get you home with me somehow. And where will you stay today while I’m doing this wretched panel?”
Jasper jumped off the bed and shook himself. Then he looked meaningfully at the door. It took Jane a moment to realize what he wanted.
“Right,” she said. “You need a walk. Just give me a minute.”
She pulled on some jeans and a shirt and located her shoes. Then she opened the door and watched as Jasper trotted down the stairs to the lobby. She hurried after him, afraid of what would happen should anyone see him. But when she found him he was on his back, having his belly rubbed by Luke.
“I’m sorry,” Jane apologized. “I know he shouldn’t be here. It’s just that I found him wandering around last night and he seemed so lost and afraid that I couldn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Luke said. “We allow dogs. Have you named him?”
“Yes—Jasper,” Jane answered.
“Are you going to keep him?”
Jane hesitated a moment. “I believe I am,” she said. “But there’s a slight problem.” She explained her situation to the young man.
“No problem,” Luke told her. “He can stay with me today. And to take him on the plane, all you need is a dog crate. I can get one sent over from the pet store if you like. I’ll just put it on your bill. He should probably have a collar while we’re at it,” he added.
Jane thanked Luke effusively. Leaving Jasper with him, she returned to her room and got ready to go to the conference. She’d thought not at all about her panel. Now she considered the question. What did women want from romance novels? Romance, clearly, she thought. What a stupid question.
She knew she couldn’t say anything of the sort to the audience. After all, they were there precisely because they believed in romance. And apparently they were buying her book because they found it romantic. She bristled at the idea. She’d always hated being referred to as a romantic. “If anything, I’m a pragmatist,” she said to her image in the mirror.
She left the hotel ten minutes later. Jasper was lying on the floor in front of the desk as if he’d been there his whole life. Jane stopped to scratch his head, and he wagged his nub of a tail. “I’ll see you later,” she told him.
Another cab ride took her to the conference hotel. The gathering was in full swing now, and the lobby bustled with action as people rushed around looking for panels or chasing after friends. Jane located the schedule of the day’s happenings and looked for her name. She found it listed in two places—once for her panel and another for a signing she was apparently doing at two o’clock. But first she had to find something called the Peacock Room.
She found it on the third floor. It was a very large room, and it was already filled with people. Jane noticed Chiara Carrington, looking stunning in a ruby-colored pantsuit, standing near a raised platform at the front of the room. She was talking to a short, heavyset woman with badly permed hair. The woman, seeing Jane, said something to Chiara, who turned and frowned. Then she said something to the other woman, who laughed and covered her mouth with her hand.
This is going to be just grand, Jane thought as she walked toward the two women. When she reached them, she smiled and held out her hand to the blond woman. “You must be Penelope,” she said.
Chiara gave a stifled laugh as the woman replied, “I’m Rebecca Little, the editor in chief of Romance magazine. I’m moderating the panel.”
“Oh,” said Jane, blushing. Not only had she offended Chiara earlier, she had now revealed that she didn’t know who either Rebecca Little or Penelope Wentz was. She was making a wonderful first impression, she thought.
“Penelope hasn’t arrived yet,” Rebecca said. “I’m actually surprised that she’s coming at all.”
Chiara made a sound of agreement. Jane resisted saying anything, lest she appear even more ignorant, but she couldn’t resist. “Why is that?” she asked.
“Well, nobody’s ever seen her,” Chiara said, as if this was common knowledge and Jane had once again failed a simple test.
“She doesn’t put any author photos on her books, she does all of her interviews by email, and she’s never come to any of the conferences,” Rebecca explained. “I’ve been trying to get her for years. I have no idea what made her change her mind this year, but I’m so glad she did. Her identity is one of the big mysteries of the genre.” She nodded at the audience. “That’s why it’s so packed.” She patted Chiara’s arm. “And of course because they want to see you,” she added.
Chiara smiled demurely. “And Jane,” she said.
“Of course,” said Rebecca. “And Jane.”
Jane wished Sally Higgins-Smythe were there. At least she likes me, she thought. These two would just as soon push me off a cliff. For a moment she wondered if perhaps Charlotte had somehow told them about her supposed theft of her own manuscript. Perhaps the panel was even an elaborate setup, and she was going to be exposed.
You’re just being paranoid, she told herself. Everything is going to be fine.
“Excuse me.”
As soon as she heard the deep voice, she knew it was not going to be fine after all. Jane turned to see Byron standing behind her. He was dressed in jeans, a black leather coat, and a white shirt open at the neck to expose a triangle of pale skin. He had grown a goatee, and if she hadn’t known him so well, she almost wouldn’t have recognized him.
“What are you doing—” she began.
He ignored her, extending his hand to Rebecca. “You must be Rebecca,” he said in his most charming voice. He smiled, showing his white teeth. “I’m Penelope Wentz.”
Chapter 28
“Can you honestly say you haven’t thought of me?” Jonathan asked, taking her hand. “Have you not missed our conversations? Have you not missed my kiss?” She looked into his face, trying to say that she had not, but the words died in her mouth.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
REBECCA COULD DO LITTLE BUT STARE AT BYRON. CHIARA DID THE same. Jane, although she was more than a little annoyed, could hardly blame them. He was handsome, even more so with the addition of the goatee. It hid his chin, which Jane had never found to be his best feature.
“You?” Rebecca said when she finally regained her voice. “You’re Penelope Wentz?” She giggled and looked around, as if surely someone must be playing a joke on her. Then she looked at Chiara, who continued to stare at Byron, completely speechless.
“I know this must come as a bit of a surprise,” Byron said smoothly. “But I assure you that I am indeed she.” He then turned to Jane and pretended to see her for the first time. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Tavish Osborn.”
Jane gave him a look that said she didn’t think this latest caper of his was at all funny. “Jane Fairfax,” she said.
Byron stepped back. “Jane Fairfax!” he exclaimed. “The author of Constance.”
“That would be I,” said Jane without enthusiasm.
Byron turned to Rebecca and Chiara. “Have you read her book?” he asked. “In my opinion, it’s
the finest romance to come out in the past century. Er, decade.”
“Aren’t you kind,” said Jane as Rebecca and Chiara exchanged puzzled glances.
Finally Chiara cleared her throat. “Pardon my surprise,” she said to Byron. “I—we—” She looked at Rebecca, who nodded. “We assumed you were a woman.”
Byron laughed lightly. “I can understand why,” he replied. Then he fixed Chiara with one of his most sensual looks. “But I promise you that I’m very much a man.”
Chiara blushed as Jane caught Byron’s eye. “Oh, please,” she mouthed at him. He grinned and winked.
“Well, this is certainly going to be a huge revelation!” Rebecca said. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think.” She looked Byron up and down. “You. Penelope Wentz.” She giggled again.
Byron looked at his watch. “I believe it’s just about time to begin,” he said.
“Of course,” Rebecca said, shaking her head as if she’d been dreaming and needed to wake up. “Why don’t we take our seats?”
The four of them ascended the platform. Chiara took the first chair, and Jane took the one farthest from her. She was relieved when she saw Rebecca start to take the seat beside her. Then Byron stepped between them.
“Would you mind?” he asked Rebecca.
Rebecca shot Jane a disapproving look. “Not at all,” she said flatly. Jane saw Chiara crane her neck around to see what was happening and frown when she saw where Byron had chosen to sit. She assumed he would sit between her and Rebecca, she thought. That way they could both pretend, he wanted to be near them.
“Penelope Wentz?” Jane said in a low voice when Byron was seated. “I suppose you killed the real one.”
“Not at all,” Byron replied. “I am indeed Penelope Wentz.” He raised one eyebrow. “I am, after all, the most romantic man in the world.”
Jane snorted. “I can’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “You promised to stay away.”
Byron held up one finger. “But I also said that I would be back one day.”
“That was three months ago!” Jane said. “I’d hardly call that a suitable intermission.”