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

How can it be a blessing to be stuck in some time warp where everyone thinks I’m someone I’m not and everyone who does know who I am hasn’t even been born yet?
    Blessing or no, I have to muster all the positive thinking I can. I don’t have the luxury of retreating to my room and crawling under the covers like I do at home. They’d just think I’m “unwell” again and start sending for trout-faced doctors with dirty knives. I have to be positive. I have to believe I’ll find my way back, even if right now I have no idea how. I will stop obsessing. I will enjoy this walk, I will enjoy the grass and trees and flowers and stop worrying about how long I’ll be stuck here—oh God, what if it’s forever?—I will not allow myself to entertain that thought. Yeah, right. I’m not only entertaining that thought, I’m taking it out to dinner and a movie. I’m here, for however long, real or unreal, time travel or insanity. It feels real, therefore it is. Or something like that. The goal is to focus on the now and figure out how to reclaim the past. Or the parallel. Or my sanity.
    Too much thinking never solved anything.
    A rustling on the path behind me makes me jump. I turn, and I am face-to-face with Edgeworth.
    “Hello,” I say, practically tripping over my hem in my confusion, then trying to act nonchalant by casually leaning on a tree trunk but missing it by a hair, the result being that Edgeworth grabs one of my flailing arms and narrowly stops me from falling on my ass.
    “Well then,” I say, checking my dress for tears, “that was elegant.”
    He bows. “I apologize for startling you. It was my fault entirely.”
    I smile at him. “I beg to differ.”
    I could just imagine Frank taking the blame for one of my blunders. Not in a million years, let alone two centuries. He was always telling me how clumsy I was, and delighted in recounting stories of my latest klutz-fest to anyone who’d listen. And his laugh, that condescending look, was nothing like the good-natured smile on Edgeworth’s face. It reminds me of how Wes smiled at me when I dropped an entire tray of baked ziti on the floor. He not only helped me clean up the mess, he also told Frank he was a jerk for having a laugh at my expense.
    “Are you hurt, Miss Mansfield?”
    “Just my pride.”
    His eyes sparkle. “I am glad you are materially unscathed.” He offers me his arm. “Shall we take a turn together?”
    Why not. His hair looks more golden in the sun, and his eyes are now emerald instead of hazel. More like Wes’s eyes. That’s ridiculous; they’re nothing like Wes’s eyes.
    “Your mother has charged me to tell you that she is suffering from a sudden headache. She asked that I accompany you on your walk so that she might recover in quiet and solitude.”
    “Poor Mrs. M,” I say, hardly able to keep a straight face.
    Edgeworth’s eyes twinkle with amusement. My parting suspicions of him last night were probably just my defense mechanisms working overtime. It’s no wonder my mind’s confused; not only am I dealing with this time warp situation, but I’m also simply not used to feeling so at ease with a man I’ve just met, regardless of time period. Except for Wes, that is, but he was my boyfriend’s friend when I met him, and not an attractive single man, so it’s not the same thing. When faced with an available man I find attractive, I usually spend half the time planning my words in my head and the other half being hyperconscious of my body language. With Edgeworth there is almost none of that.
    There is a stone bench on one of the gravel paths, and Edgeworth asks me if I would like to sit for a few minutes.
    “Sure,” I say, but when I meet his eyes I can see something is wrong.
    He looks down at his boots. “I must speak with you.”
    I can feel the blood drain from my face. Why is my stomach doing flip-flops?
    He raises his eyes to mine. “Allow me to express what is weighing upon my mind.”
    I nod, my heart