Free Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

of this have to do with me?”
    Mr. M takes off his glasses and starts polishing them with a cloth. “I am merely sharing my observations, which are that on previous occasions you spoke but little to Mr. Edgeworth, despite your mother’s various hints to be more talkative. Instead, you took every opportunity to engage yourself in conversation or activity with others, and almost seemed to avoid Mr. Edgeworth’s attentions. Your mother noticed this as well, and with great dissatisfaction, I might add. I can have no doubt that it is as clear to you as it is to me that your mother wishes to see you married to Mr. Edgeworth. And as I do not know you to be shy of conversation in general, I could therefore only conclude, until tonight, that is, that your manners while in company with Mr. Edgeworth were not the result of shyness but rather, at the very least, indifference.”
    “And to what did you attribute my indifference?”
    He shrugs. “Perhaps you find it inconceivable that a widower who truly loved his wife could possibly form a second attachment. However, your mother believes that you did like him, at least at first, and then changed toward him, quite unaccountably. Far be it from me to pretend to understand what goes on in a woman’s mind when it comes to matters of love. However, even I can see that your mind has taken a different turn tonight.”
    “You mean you think I’m in love with Mr. Edgeworth just because I talked to him at dinner?”
    “Your mother will choose to think so. As may Mr. Edgeworth. So if you are not inclined to raise expectations among your friends as to your becoming the second Mrs. Edgeworth, I suggest you refrain from encouraging him.” He pats my hand. “Not that I think there is anything improper in your behavior, my dear.”
    “This is unbelievable.”
    “Mr. Edgeworth appears to be an amiable, gentlemanlike sort of man. He is of a respectable family and from all reports appears to have a considerable fortune. These are important qualities, my dear, but unless you love the man, I fear you will never find happiness.”
    “How could I love this person? I hardly even know him.”
    Mr. Mansfield smiles and puts on his glasses. “I knew you would be open with me, Jane. Let us say no more about the matter. And let us hope that your mother’s fancies have not carried her too far away just yet. Or that Mr. Edgeworth does not declare himself before there is any chance of your manners toward him returning to their former state.”
    “Oh, please. You’ve got to be kidding.”
    He winks at me. And I laugh with relief.
    Afterward, I lie in bed, unable to fall asleep, unable to get my conversation with Mr. M out of my mind. This isn’t another century; it’s another planet. All I do is have a nice chat with a guy over dinner and everyone’s ready to order wedding invitations. Talk about making assumptions.
    If there’s anything I’ve learned as a single woman in search of that holy grail, a decent relationship, it’s that I have no right to assume anything. I have no right to assume I am in a relationship with a man, even if that man is someone I’m regularly sleeping with. I have no right to assume fidelity, not even from my fiancé. And if I were to sleep with someone new, I have no right to assume I’ll get so much as a hey-I-had-a-good-time-last-night phone call. If I’m lucky, he might spend five minutes with me two weeks later when I run into him at a party. Even Frank took months to use the dreaded “R” word; the “L” word took even longer. And now I’m to assume that a man I talked to at dinner, an absolute stranger, could be a matrimonial object if I don’t curb my conversational excesses? True, he isn’t exactly a stranger to Jane, but he’s certainly a stranger to me.
    As is everyone else in this borrowed life. The thought makes me shiver, despite the warmth of the night. How can it be possible to inhabit a strange body, talk with a strange voice, and be saddled