Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict Read Online Free Page A

classes? Perhaps ordering him to service me?
    Barnes looks like she’s just been slapped, and I realize I’ve got a smirk on my face. Poor Barnes. How could I be so insensitive? Just because I know this isn’t real doesn’t mean that she knows it, too. If she did, she wouldn’t be crying her eyes out. Which means her brother wouldn’t know this isn’t real either, so the least I could do is have a little compassion. Poor guy, whoever he is, suffering over me like that, and his sister, suffering over all of us. Imagine a man daring to risk everything for love. Of me.
    Then again, it’s not for love of me, it’s for love of this dark-haired woman’s reflection I see in the mirror. Which makes sense, because a man’s risking everything for love of me could only happen in a dream. Real life is populated with the likes of Frank, formerly known as fiancé, and Wes, formerly known as friend. Both currently known as pond scum.
    I wonder if I’ll see my alleged lover from the oppressed classes before I wake up. Much as I want to wake up and get back to my life, I can’t help but be curious. Is he cute? Does he have some kind of blue-collar magnetism like Joe, the carpenter who spent a month earthquake-retrofitting my building and another three walking around my bedroom wearing nothing but a tool belt?
    I realize Barnes is looking at me.
    “Sorry?” I say.
    “Do you forgive me, miss, for sobbing all over you like that? And you just recovered yourself.”
    “Don’t give it a second thought. I hope you feel better soon.”
    “Oh, miss. You’re so kind, you are. Always thinking of everyone else but yourself.” She wipes a tear away. And with a curtsey, leaves me alone in this room. To think. And sleep.
    Which I do within seconds, the last fuzzy thought being that I trust this will be all over when I awake.

Four
    B ut it’s not. I’m still here. Shit. It’s morning. Birds singing. The scent of roses wafting through my window. Mrs. Mansfield in my doorway.
    Like I said, Shit.
    “Good morning, Jane. You look well.”
    I turn on my side, so that I am facing away from her.
    “Are you well enough to come downstairs and have some breakfast?” She strips the covers off me; guess I don’t have a choice. If this were really like a Jane Austen novel, someone like Captain Benwick would be at my feet reading me Scott and Byron as I recovered from my head injury. But instead I’m subjected to the whims of a frilly blond porcelain doll and her scalpel-wielding henchman.
    “Here, let me.” She helps me to my feet.
    I take a few tentative steps and feel little of the weakness of the day before. Evidently the healing process in dreams is a swift one.
    “Well? You seem infinitely better,” she says.
    “I guess so.”
    “Good girl. I shall send Barnes to you.” She eyes my face and frowns, swiping her hand across my forehead and then examining her fingers, as if checking for dust on a dresser top. Then she leans over, her face close to mine, but instead of giving me a kiss, she sniffs at my skin, her mouth crinkling in distaste, before straightening her posture and gliding toward the door. “Your face could do with a good washing” is her parting endearment.
    Barnes appears within moments, all demure and polite silence this morning. And for the next half hour she furrows her brow in concentration while she laces and buttons me into various layers of clothing and does my hair. I enjoy the pampering, which, come to think of it, is more necessity than pampering. After all, how could anyone get into these clothes alone, especially with the laces and buttons inconveniently located in the back of the garments?
    I realize I have not brushed my teeth since God knows when, and I ask Barnes for a toothbrush, hoping that such a thing exists. Thankfully, she produces a reasonable facsimile, albeit a little ratty and with a metal handle, but nevertheless a toothbrush. There’s even a tongue scraper. Using someone else’s dental