I SLEPT fitfully, no doubt disturbed by the light from the TV screen. It had been on all night, because I had naively introduced Jane to the internet.
Instead of replaying Pride and Prejudice for her, I’d navigated to YouTube to show Jane trailers of other adaptations of her novels. She was so amused by her brief peek at Clueless, the Bridget Jones movies, Love and Friendship, Bride and Prejudice and Lost in Austen (she was intrigued by the title), that I’d taken the plunge and even shown her my gory favourite, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I couldn’t believe she’d approve of such a bizarre take on her work, but to my surprise she took it all in her stride, even laughing merrily when one of the Bennet sisters pulled a knife from her stocking and killed a rotting zombie corpse.
‘It is, of course, ridiculous,’ she’d chuckled. ‘But it reminds me a little of my childish stories: Jack and Alice and Frederic and Elfrida and my very silly History of England. Parodies, you know. How queer it is to find one’s creations being used in such a way.’ She’d eyed the screen thoughtfully. ‘I wonder… Cassandra, do you think I might try this… internet?’
‘Sure, if you think you can manage the controls.’
She’d produced a bead of lime-green ectoplasm and shot it at the controller. Within minutes she’d become remarkably adept and was soon scrolling through lists of links to all things Jane Austen. She’d been stunned by the number of videos, photos and memes; intrigued by the Republic of Pemberley, Austenprose and janeaustensworld; and startled to discover the existence of Jane Austen societies across the globe.
Together we’d ranged widely, hunting down answers to Jane’s myriad questions about the modern world. By three a.m. I was exhausted and had crawled under the duvet, leaving her to trawl the web alone.
She woke me at eight to tell she was sick of reading about herself, could stand no more TED talks, current affairs sites or archival footage of key moments in history since 1817, and that she’d had a superfluity of Facebook, the BBC, CNN, moon landings, royal weddings, carpool karaoke, and cat videos. (I’d insisted cat videos were an essential part of modern life). What she wanted was to read a book.
‘For, although I find all this modern storytelling very thought-provoking and amusing, it does not allow much room for one’s imagination. Indeed, I find such amusements pall after a time. I own to feeling rather jaded.’
I cracked open my eyes and said blearily, ‘You just watched that stuff for ten hours straight, Jane. I’m surprised you lasted that long.’
‘It was all so new at first, and much of it was most interesting.’ She sighed. ‘Your world is so very different from the one I knew. It is more complicated and more… intense than I am used to. It makes me weary. I believe a book will be the perfect cure for my fatigue.’
‘What sort of book?’
‘Let it be something in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Let it be a novel.’
I smiled inwardly. That had to be at least a ten-point quote!
‘Only I do not know which of these to choose. None of these titles is familiar to me.’ She indicated the overstuffed bookcase.
I dragged myself out of bed and considered the books
Jane read some titles aloud. ‘The Hunger Games, Cluny Brown, Big Little Lies, Beloved, The Thirty-Nine Steps, The Shipping News, Venetia, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Colour Purple, To Marry a Prince, The Wind in the Willows, A Civil Contract, The Warden, Devil’s Bride, The Hobbit, Gaudy Night, The One Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared…’ She paused. ‘An unusual title. Should I like it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s very funny in parts.’
‘Funny? What do you mean?’
‘Amusing. Witty. It’s kind of ridiculous, but very entertaining.’
‘Indeed? Then I shall certainly read it, for follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.’
Two points.
She gestured to the other shelves. ‘Are these also funny?’
‘Don’t know. I’ve only read a few of these, though I’ve heard of most of them.’
‘Then I shall certainly read them all.’
‘Will you?’ I was startled. ‘I doubt you’ll have time. We’ll need to leave in a few hours. Dexter should be ready by noon.’
Jane waved airily. ‘Do not worry, Cassandra. I read very quickly. Only, where to begin? Perhaps …’ She pointed and a book floated out of the shelf and hovered in the air before her. ‘Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. Two pleasing names. I shall begin with this one.’
‘Okay.’ I bit my lip. After all, there was nothing to be gained by telling Jane that Charlotte Brontë had not been an admirer of hers.
JANE had not exaggerated when she’d said she was a fast reader, though surely it was some kind of supernatural power that let her read six or seven books an hour. I sat down to breakfast – fortunately a short enough distance away that I could leave Jane to her reading – and ate while checking in on Aunt Butters, texting Oliver and the Bishop to let them know when I would join them, and trying to work out my next move in breaking the curse that held me and Jane bound, kept Aunt Butters on the Cusp and prevented Jane from reuniting with her loved ones.
Nothing came to mind, and I returned disconsolately to my room.
I found Jane hovering by the now half-empty bookcase smiling over Mr Darcy’s Diary, while all the books she’d read in the last three hours floated around her like some kind of bookish mid-air merry-go-round. At first I didn’t believe she’d read them all, but she soon convinced me it was so with pithy appraisals of each novel.
‘Do you know, Cassandra,’ she said, waving the books back onto the shelves and drifting down to me. ‘As I once wrote, “I do believe that the person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”’
Huh. She’d actually acknowledged that one. Zero points for me. ‘Lucky I like reading fiction then,’ I murmured, before adding briskly. ‘Right, Jane. We need a plan.’
‘We do indeed. Look here, Cassandra.’ Jane manipulated the remote with ectoplasm and brought up an internet page. ‘I thought of this while you were eating breakfast.’ She pointed to a portrait of a man in an old-fashioned blue coat and white neckcloth. He was rather insipid-looking with a soft rounded chin, sandy hair and protuberant blue eyes.
‘Who is he, Jane? Some friend of yours?’
‘Certainly not.’ Jane was indignant. ‘It is the horrible Mr Clarke.’
I blinked.
‘Is it? Eugh. What does Wikipedia say about him?’
‘Nothing to any purpose, but I thought perhaps if I saw him again, it might induce some useful memory to aid us in our quest.’
‘And did it?’
‘Unfortunately, it seems only to have reminded me of his unwelcome attentions and his interference in the matter of my fourth novel.’
I cudgelled my brain. ‘You mean Emma?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what did James Stanier Clarke have to do with Emma?’
She scowled. ‘It was at his insistence that I dedicated Emma to the Prince Regent.’
‘Was that so bad?’ I studied Clarke’s portrait; it was kind of hard to see the villain in such a wimpy-looking man. ‘Maybe he meant well?’
‘It was insupportable,’ cried Jane. ‘To have Emma, my own darling child, be thus appropriated by a man I could neither like nor respect. The Regent’s treatment of his wife alone was enough to give me the greatest dislike of him. Add to that his adultery, profligacy and unashamed debauchery and I wished his attention had fallen elsewhere than upon my books.’
‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased to have a real-life prince admire your writing. It says here that Pride and Prejudice was one of the Prince Regent’s favourite books. And he was pretty important. I mean, they named a whole period after him.’
Jane pressed her lips together as though struggling to contain her emotions. ‘That is all very well, Cassandra, but I was compelled to write that pompous… that ostentatious dedication to him and see it printed upon the flyleaf of Emma. To have the pages of my beloved novel thus polluted and all because of that awful man—’ She shot a shining spear of silver ectoplasm at Clarke’s portrait.
I instantly thrust out my hand, for this was no gentle green pulse for manipulating the controller, but an angry barb of gleaming silver essence that might damage the TV screen.
It hit my hand hard. ‘Ouch. That hurt. You need to—’ I stopped. The ectoplasm was seeping into my skin like water into sand. It burned ice-cold and then, as though excited by its presence in my bloodstream, my heart began to race and my blood fizzed. Ideas poured into my brain; I saw myself speaking to an audience, my words so intelligent and insightful people were actually listening to me. I stared at Jane and recalled how her touch had made me feel smarter – but that had only been on the surface, now I’d been pierced by the stuff.
I’d been penetrated by Jane Austen’s genius.
I could feel her intelligence whizzing around my body as though it were a pinball and all my brain’s neurons and synapses were being lit up by its presence. It was as if my brain were… growing. The whole world was sharper and more detailed. I heard Betty going down the stairs and suddenly I understood her loneliness: her only son neglected her; his occasional kindness was all self-serving; he was selfish and devious. My heart thudded. This was how Jane Austen saw people – with this extraordinary, mind-blowing clarity!
And I, Cassandra Austin, as ordinary as I was, I’d been allowed to see it because I was inextricably tied to the Jane Austen.
It was incredible!
‘Are you all right, Cassandra?’ asked Jane, when I did not speak.
‘What?’ I looked blindly at her, my mind still absorbed by the glorious awareness of abilities I’d never dreamed I had. And ideas. Lots of ideas. For instance—
‘Of what are you thinking?’
‘James Stanier Clarke. It’s just struck me – do you think he needed four of your possessions in order to curse you, just as we need four to release you from the curse?’
She thought for a moment. ‘It does seem likely,’ she said.
This was exciting. I was on to something. I could feel it.
‘So, what did he have of yours that let him cast that spell?’
‘Only my letters.’
‘Nothing else?’
She pondered. ‘I do not believe so, but I cannot be absolutely sure. I met him only twice. Brief, formal visits in the Carlton House library. I do not recall giving him anything.’
‘Did you leave anything behind?’
‘I think not. I remember that on my second visit I wore my new white muslin dress and my red stole with the black trim. Mrs Mussell had made it up for me to match my black hat – it had red feathers and was quite the thing. And I carried something else …’ She frowned. ‘Oh yes, my brown fur muff, for it was November and chilly.’ She gazed at me, her eyes alert. ‘Of what are you thinking, Cassandra?’
‘If we knew which four things Clarke had used to curse you, it might help us figure out what we need to cast the counter-curse – assuming we find the Grimoire, that is.’
‘He had my letters,’ Jane ticked them off on her fingers. ‘And perhaps he stole a feather from my hat.’
‘That’s an idea,’ I exclaimed. ‘And maybe he took some fur or … or …’ I could feel the ectoplasm wearing off and forced myself to think. ‘Could he could have stolen your handkerchief or something from your reticule or … did you touch anything while you were at Carlton House?’
Jane wrinkled her brow. ‘I recall I sat in a chair while we spoke and then he—’ She gasped. ‘Stay a moment, I remember him approaching me and I retreating to the Regent’s bookcase. I—I took down one of Miss Burney’s novels – to try if I might distract Mr Clarke from paying his addresses to me, you understand.’
I nodded. ‘Maybe all he needed was something you’d touched, Jane. Maybe he used that book.’
She looked shocked. ‘To use the King’s copy of Camilla for such a purpose! What a wicked fellow he was, to be sure.’ She sped agitatedly about the room.
Jane’s genius had almost worn off. It was like being drained of some marvellous magical elixir that left you thirsting for even one drop more. The rush of ideas slowed and the detailed world I’d observed for those few precious minutes became more general and less nuanced.
I was tempted to ask Jane if she could do it again – to shoot another barb of silver ectoplasm into me – just to feel her genius one more time. Only, it wouldn’t last. And, God willing, she wouldn’t be here for very much longer. I would be foolish to get used to her presence because, even with her essence inside of me, I would never be equal to Jane Austen.
I sighed. I would only ever be me and that would have to do.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down at the screen to read the text message. The words were ordinary – prosaic, everyday. But somehow they lightened my mood.
I looked up. ‘Good news, Jane. Dexter’s repaired and ready to go. Come on, we can figure this out in the car.’