Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

practically passes out in the living room from too much good food and wine. And I miss his unconscionably divine cooking, which has no apparent effect on his lanky frame. It’s as hard to stay angry at Wes here as it is to feel more than an abstract sense of heartbreak over Frank.
    As for Mrs. M, she has lately limited the worst of her venom to my unmarried state; there hasn’t been a single allusion to madness or asylums in several days. I’m sure that’s due to my concentrated efforts to sound authentic and to confine my twenty-first-century verbal snideness to the diary I’ve begun.
    Something else to look forward to doing tomorrow. That and bath day.

    “M iss?”
    I bolt up from my semi-reclining position in the tub, sending surges of bathwater toward Barnes, who is towering over me, holding a towel in front of her.
    “Sorry, Barnes. I must have dozed off.”
    “Not at all, miss.” She dabs her forehead with a corner of her apron, and again proffers the open towel. I stand up and she enfolds me in it, followed by a robe, which I tie around my waist, dropping the towel to the floor.
    It is then that I feel a trickle down my leg, and I see that it’s not water, but blood.
    It isn’t my usual time, but then again, this isn’t my usual body.
    “Barnes?” She whips her head around, disengaging herself from the task of deciding which of two gowns I should wear this morning.
    “It appears I have my period. Do you have anything I can use?”
    She looks at me blankly. “Begging your pardon?”
    “I’m menstruating, Barnes.”
    Still a blank.
    I point to the carpet, which now has evidence of my condition. “Sorry, Barnes. But if you don’t get me whatever you have that might resemble a tampon or a pad, there’s going to be a bigger mess than this.”
    Barnes’s cheeks flame. “Oh, dear.” She drops the dresses on the bed and scurries over to a drawer, retrieving from it a couple of rolled-up lengths of linen and an odd beltlike contraption with strings, which she deposits in my hands before bustling out the door, cheeks flaming, stammering something about fetching a fresh basin of water.
    I am stumped by the belt, but I’m not about to ask Barnes to show me how to use it, as she appears to have regained no part of her composure when she returns with a basin of water and an empty bowl that she places under my bed, presumably to hold the soiled linen. Fortunately, I will not be expected to get through the day clenching a wad of fabric between my thighs, as Barnes replaces the two candidate dresses for the day in the armoire and pulls out a fresh nightgown from one of my drawers. Mumbling something about telling my mother I am “indisposed” today, she tugs the nightgown over my head and puts me right back into bed. Quite a different experience than what I’m used to. No shoving of tampons and then scurrying off to go about business as usual, no matter how bad the cramps or bleeding are, and mine are usually bad enough to legitimately keep me in bed.
    “Now what would you like me to bring you for breakfast?” Barnes seems to have calmed herself a little, now that I am settled in bed and she has dabbed at the carpet with a wet cloth, apparently to her satisfaction.
    “Surprise me.”
    Barnes half-smiles her relief, then bobs a curtsey and begins to head out the door.
    “So Barnes, what do you call this?” I point vaguely in the direction of my stomach.
    “Miss?” The flush has returned to Barnes’s cheeks.
    “What do you call the reason why I’m back in bed today—you know; woman to woman?”
    She glances toward the partially open doorway, perhaps wishing to escape, and then turns back to face me.
    “You mean your…” she stage-whispers, furtively glancing behind her as if checking for eavesdroppers, then closes the door to make sure, her back against it. “You mean your monthly courses?”
    “Yes. Thank you, Barnes.”
    She stands there for a moment, looking at me uncertainly. “Will there