Free Attempting Elizabeth by Jessica Grey

sound person into a complete tailspin two full months later?
    So, if I were to rule out a complete break with reality that left me where? With this being reality? Was I actually physically in a fictional world created in the mind of a British woman two hundred years ago?
    It wasn’t like I could even claim I’d time travelled (and sadly, that seemed more probable to me than my current situation). Yes, this was Regency England—I’m guessing I was in 1810. Based on my understanding of the timeline of Pride and Prejudice, it mostly takes place in 1811 and Darcy says in his letter to Elizabeth that Georgiana’s near elopement had taken place the summer before. I suppose if I’d known I was going to end up trapped between the pages of the book I’d have paid a bit more attention to details like dates.
    But it wasn’t really 1810. It was 1810 as written about in a novel by Jane Austen. A novel populated by fictional characters. And I was one of them. And apparently time hadn’t moved forward at all, because this all felt very déjà vu .
    I decided to test my “time has not moved forward” theory. “I was just thinking what a lovely walk we had yesterday with Mr. Wickham.”
    “Yes, it was quite a nice walk. Mr Wickham is such a great walker,” she replied.
    “Oh, er, yes,” I answered cautiously. “It was quite a lovely walk, though perhaps the conversation was a bit, um, unusual.”
    Mrs. Younge looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Was it? It seemed quite normal to me, although Mr. Wickham did pay you several pretty compliments.”
    “So then, you don’t remember Mr. Wickham proposing marriage to me yesterday?”
    “I—I—beg you your pardon?” Mrs. Younge sputtered. “Wickham...No, surely he would have—”
    “Would have what, Mrs. Younge? Told you ahead of time? You’re co-conspirators after all.” My theory was correct. I was right back where I’d started. And I’d already blown my demure Georgiana act before I’d even gotten it started. “So is he supposed to propose today, then?”
    Mrs. Younge took a deep breath and schooled her features into a placid expression. “I do not understand,” she said carefully, “what you are speaking of.”
    “Don’t you?” I asked sarcastically. My sense of déjà vu was now so strong that I was secretly glancing around for a glitch in the Matrix. “Me. Wickham. Eloping. Thirty thousand pounds. Any of these ringing a bell?” I crossed my legs and leaned back against the settee in a very unladylike manner “What’s in it for you? Is he paying you off with part of my dowry?” Mrs. Younge’s pale blue eyes shifted to the side, refusing to meet my direct stare. “Or is he already paying you off, so to speak?”
    A flush, whether of anger or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell, infused Mrs. Younge’s cheeks.
    “Oh,” I said knowingly. “He is already paying you, and not just in money.” I wondered how much I could get away with...maybe if I was just totally as un-Georgiana as possible I would somehow jar myself out of this craziness. “So, is George good in bed?” There was a small gasp of shock from Mrs. Younge, but I was on a roll. “I’ve always wondered why so many women fall all over themselves for him. I mean Georgiana, um, me, I get, and even Lydia—she’s young and stupid—but why would a woman like you hitch your wagon to that mess? You could have a real and respectable job doing this companion thing, or even the boarding house thing you do later, why waste all this effort on Wickham? Is the sex really that good?”
    By this time Mrs. Younge was shaking with rage. Her face had contorted, her lips curling into an unattractive snarl. “Be quiet! Stop it this moment.”
    “Hitting a little to close to home there, huh, Younge? I find myself kind of morbidly curious about you’re sordid little affair with Wickham. How much younger is he than you do you think? Ten, fifteen years? Does he make you feel all young and desirable and all