Free Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page A

with the life history, environment, parents, and friends of that person, all of whom insist that you are not you? More important, how am I ever going to get back to who I really am?

Twelve
    I am no closer to an answer at breakfast than I was the night before. Mrs. Mansfield is all smiles, which are only briefly interrupted when she comments that I look a bit pale. But when I eat a little breakfast, she tells me that my complexion is already improving. That’s right, Mrs. M. Hot chocolate is the new revolution in skin care.
    “Mr. Edgeworth is expected any moment, and when he comes I will remark on how fine the weather is today and how pleasant it would be for the three of us to take a walk around the grounds.”
    Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Maybe chocolate is good for the skin in this reality. And has no carbs. Perhaps there is a God after all.
    Mrs. M dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Edgeworth will of course express his willingness to escort us. I will, however, develop a sudden headache. Quiet and solitude being the best medicine, I will decide to stay inside and insist that you and he go on without me.”
    She smiles smugly and spreads some jam on her toast. What an accomplishment, to get me alone with prime marriage material. If she only knew how many men I’ve been alone with. And what I’ve done with them. Ah yes, Mrs. M. I can just see you reaching for your smelling salts. I smile at the thought.
    At which she says, “I am glad to see the idea does not displease you. You will, of course, be attentive to Mr. Edgeworth today and show him every courtesy.”
    “Whatever you say, darling.” I get up and make a mock curtsey. “And now I would like to get a head start on that walk until our guest arrives. With your permission, of course.”
    “Saucy, aren’t you,” she says with a sneer. “Mind you keep to the house, Jane. I want you here as soon as Mr. Edgeworth arrives.”
    I salute like a good soldier. “Yes, ma’am.”
    As I stroll through the shrubbery, something Anna said keeps repeating in my mind. Something she gleaned from one of her creepy friends in her meditation class or from one of the endless parade of new-age practitioners she pays to dissect her aura, polish her crystals, or give her house an energy cleaning. Frankly, she’d be better off spending her money on getting her house cleaned the good old-fashioned physical-plane sort of way, because it’s an absolute sty. What she said was something about trusting that everything, no matter how horrible it might seem at that moment, ultimately turns out to be a blessing. It’s odd that I remember her saying what she did, because I usually tune out her well-meaning platitudes.
    Now I know why I remember this particular so-called truth, because that’s just what she said to me right after I discovered that Frank had slept with Amy. It was a blessing, she proclaimed, that his infidelity came out before, rather than after the wedding. I know she was right, but at the time all I could think about was how I was going to endure the humiliation of informing everyone I’d invited that there would be no wedding, including returning wedding gifts to those eager guests who’d wanted first pick at the registry. But, she insisted, it was a blessing to be saved from an illusion; I mean, I could have married that illusion, right?
    But how about the fact that I wanted my day of illusion—just one measly day; was that too much to ask? Was it too much to wish I’d been spared the truth until after the wedding, until after I got to be queen of the ball in a white satin dress? It was my illusion, damn it, and Frank had cheated me out of it. He had cheated me out of reaching that milestone in my life, that public proof of my worth. How much nicer it would sound if I could say, “I’m divorced. It just didn’t work out,” than, “I’m single. I’ve never been married.”
    That I am now attempting to derive comfort from Anna’s words is proof of my desperation.