Brian reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Jane pulled away. “I had hoped to renew an old acquaintance,” he said.
“Dinner’s on!” Walter called from the dining room.
Jane turned and walked away, the sting of Brian’s touch still burning on her cheek. In the dining room, Walter was placing a dish of peas on the table, which already held a roast on a platter, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and the usual assortment of cutlery and glassware.
“You sit here,” Walter said to Jane, indicating a place on the left. “And Brian, you sit here,” he continued, pointing to the head of the table.
They all sat, and Walter picked up the platter of beef. “I hope you like it rare,” he said as he passed it to Brian. “I can’t stand overcooked meat.”
“This looks perfect,” said Brian as he helped himself to several pieces before passing the dish to Jane. “I do like my beef on the bloody side.”
Jane took a small piece of roast, then accepted the peas from Walter. As she in turn passed them to Brian, their fingers touched. The shock that passed between them startled her, and she dropped the bowl. Before it hit the table, Brian’s hand shot out and caught it. Jane snatched her hand back and held it in her lap, rubbing it with her other one. Her skin still tingled.
“Jane, Brian is another Austen fan,” Walter said. “I told him he should talk to you.”
“Indeed,” Brian remarked. “Tell me, Jane, what is your opinion of the Austen craze that seems to have possessed your country?” He paused. “My apologies. I mean, of course, this country.”
Jane stabbed at the piece of meat on her plate. The juice from the beef was pink with blood, and she felt her mouth water. Before answering Brian, she took a bite and chewed it thoroughly, savoring the taste.
“I think the books appeal to readers of all times,” she answered.
Brian nodded. “Women do like the romances,” he said.
Jane flushed. “They’re more than just romances,” she said. “And their appeal is hardly limited to women.”
Brian waved his fork in the air. “Of course,” he said. “I myself thoroughly enjoy her work. But surely you agree that her subject matter is rather … lightweight, if you will.” Instead of waiting for Jane to reply, he continued. “The critic G. H. Lewes once told Charlotte Brontë that she should study Austen’s work in order to correct her own shortcomings as an author. Do you know what her response was?”
Jane snorted. “She said that Austen’s work was like, and I quote, an ‘accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers—but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy—no open country—no fresh air—no blue hill—no bonny beck,’” she said tartly.
“I see you’ve read the correspondence,” Brian commented. “And that you disagree.”
“I certainly do,” said Jane. “What nonsense. Just because Austen’s heroines aren’t flinging themselves all over the moors and mooning over disfigured men and being tormented by madwomen and burning up in fires and who knows what other foolishness …” Her voice trailed off. She took up her wineglass and drank deeply. Charlotte Brontë, she thought. Of all people.
To her annoyance she saw that Walter and Brian were laughing. “What?” she said.
“You just sounded so irate,” said Walter. “Almost as if Austen were a dear friend. Which I suppose she is, really.”
Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I suppose Jane Eyre is a good novel,” she said. “In its way. Personally, I find it devoid of warmth and overripe with melodrama.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing Austen died before Miss Brontë passed judgment on her,” Brian suggested. “The chill that would surely have pervaded the drawing room had they ever met would have been formidable.”
“I’d very much like to see that,” said Walter. Looking at Jane, he added, “Or perhaps we could get you to debate that Brontë scholar. What’s her name?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Violet Grey. She’s not an Austen fan either.”
“I’ve met Grey,” Brian said. “And I agree, that would be interesting. Very interesting.”
Jane refused to encourage further commentary on the subject. Instead, she inspected the peas on her plate with great curiosity. “Is this mint in the peas?” she asked Walter.
He nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “How ever did you think of it?”
“Do you write?” interrupted Brian.
Jane looked at him. “I?” she said innocently.
Brian smiled. “You seem to have such passion for novels,” he answered. “I thought perhaps you yourself might be a writer.”
“When I was younger I wrote a bit,” Jane said. “Nothing serious. Now I’m content to sell books.”
“I should very much like to see the kind of thing you wrote,” said Brian. “Perhaps I can convince you to show it to me.”
“Don’t bother,” Walter told him. “I’ve been asking her for years. She won’t do it.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t anything to read,” said Jane. “It all was thrown away.”
Brian frowned. “I’m disappointed to hear it,” he said.
Jane said nothing, focusing on her plate and eating a few bites. Walter turned the conversation to something else, but Jane blocked it out. All she wanted was to finish dinner and go home. When a few minutes later she heard Walter speak her name, she looked up.
“Would you like coffee with your cake?” he asked.
Jane started to decline, thinking perhaps she could excuse herself early. But she felt that would be allowing Brian to win the little battle he was waging with her. Already he had landed several blows, and she was determined not to let him have the better of her.
“That would be very nice,” she said. “Let me help.”
She stood up before Walter could decline her offer, picking up her plate and the platter of beef and carrying them to the kitchen. Walter followed and began making coffee as Jane returned to the dining room for the rest of the dishes.
“He has no idea, does he?” Brian said as Jane picked up the bowl of peas.
“Of course not,” said Jane.
“Do you love him?”
Jane, clutching the bowl, glared at Brian. “What business is that of yours?”
Brian laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t changed at all,” he told her. “The same old Jane.”
“You’re one to talk,” she replied. “I don’t know what—”
“Here’s the coffee,” Walter announced, interrupting the moment. “And I’ll be right back with the cake.”
Jane started to follow him back to the kitchen, but Brian grabbed her arm. “Meet me tomorrow,” he said.
“Why would I do that?” asked Jane, snorting.
“Because you want to,” Brian said. “I can tell.”
Jane hesitated.
“Tomorrow,” said Brian. “You choose the place.”
Jane sighed. “The bookstore,” she said. “Nine o’clock, after closing.”
Brian grinned. “I look forward to it,” he said.
Dessert seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Jane picked at the cake; despite its being chocolate, she couldn’t bring herself to eat more than a few bites of it. She contributed little to the conversation, which had turned to American politics. When finally Brian announced that it was time for him to leave, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good night,” Brian said to Walter after he’d collected his coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I suspect.” Then he took Jane’s hand. “And I hope to see you again as well.”
When he had gone, Jane offered to help Walter clean up. They were in the kitchen, Walter washing and Jane drying each dish as he handed it to her, when Walter said, “You’ve met him before, haven’t you?”
Jane finished drying the plate in her hand. She was unsure how best to answer Walter’s question. She decided to be honest. “Yes,” she said. “I have.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jane took the bowl Walter held out. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “At first I was shocked to see him. Then … well, it’s difficult to explain.”