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

be anything else?”
    “Just breakfast.”
    And with that, she flees.

Fifteen
    “B arnes, don’t you think a day and a half in bed is enough already?”
    Barnes deposits a tray on the table next to my bed. My mouth waters at the sight of cold roast beef, thick slices of bread, and a pot of mustard. Being confined to my room has made the arrival of my meal trays an unusually welcome break in the dullness.
    “But you are unwell, miss.”
    “I am not. In fact, I believe I’ve even stopped bleeding.”
    Which is enough to send the blood rushing to Barnes’s face. She looks down at her shoes, twisting her apron between her hands.
    “Your mother is most particular…”
    If I have to hear that one more time I’ll scream. “Can I please get out of this room tomorrow then?”
    “Of course, miss. If you are not indisposed.”
    I sigh and settle back into bed. It seems that while giving way to the grosser bodily functions seems to raise nary a blush in the Lord’s house, having one’s period makes one a social outcast in one’s own house.
    “Thank you, Barnes. That will be all.”
    Guess I’ll stretch my legs and have something to eat, then write in my journal.
    The roast beef is delicious. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Plate cleaned, I allow myself a little walk around the room, now that I’ve finally figured out how to use that odd menstrual belt contraption. Not that I seem to be bleeding anymore, but just in case. Funny how in this body I’ve bled for only a day and a half with no cramping whatsoever. This is the mildest period I’ve ever had in my life, and it actually seems to be over.
    I look out the window at gray, overcast skies and a green expanse of lawn glistening with moisture. At least I’m not being kept from good weather. Never did like walking in the rain. Nevertheless, I’ll blow off some steam in my journal about the position of women in Jane Austen’s world. I certainly don’t have anyone to rant to but myself. What did Anne Eliot say in Persuasion? We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. That’s right, Anne. And it sucks.
    I unearth the slim leather-bound volume from its hiding place inside the depths of a hatbox that resides in the very back of my closet. Can’t be too careful with the likes of Mrs. M under the same roof. Funny how with all my searching of this room for letters or a diary that the real Jane might have kept—something that might give me a clue to her life before I arrived—the only thing I came up with is this slim, blank book of pages, hidden, or forgotten, in this very hatbox.
    I retrieve the lightweight, portable writing desk from the top of the bureau and settle myself into an armchair covered in dark pink watered silk. Inside the lid of the desk are packets of blank stationery, sealing wax, quill pens, and a pot of ink. But no letters, of course. I still can’t get over how quickly I’ve taken to writing with a quill pen. Not a single blot of ink, neither on clothes nor on paper. Just flowing script, which, as I flip through the pages of the journal, I realize looks almost nothing like my own handwriting. Yet I recognize the words I wrote.
    I shudder and turn more pages to get to a blank one, when near the end of the filled-in pages one of them catches my eye. Courtney Stone, it says. Courtney Stone Courtney Stone Courtney Stone. Over and over again, evenly filling every imaginary line, spilling onto a second page.
    But wait a minute. Around three quarters of the way down that second page it says Jane. Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane, over and over until it spills onto the next page, where about a third of the way down it says Jane Mansfield Jane Mansfield Jane Mansfield, again and again until the page is filled. And instead of the amusement at the anachronism that I tell myself I should feel, the flesh rises on my arms, and I shiver, slamming the journal shut.
    I have no recollection of having filled in those pages full of names.
    I shove