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

the journal back into the bottom of its hatbox, my desire to write killed. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and will myself to sleep, so that I don’t have to think about any of this. But as I lie here unable to sleep, forehead sweaty, covers balled into a tangle at the corner of the bed, my mind spins with the vision of those pages of names.
    My not remembering having written those names is only a symptom of a larger problem: Despite my daily sense of culture shock, I cannot deny that I am starting to feel like a different person. After all, how can I really think of myself as Courtney when no one around me does, when no one calls me by my real name, shares my memories of who I am? How can I even be sure of who I am when the voice that comes from my mouth is as alien as the face that looks back at me in the mirror?
    I will not think about this. I will not. I will read Pride and Prejudice. In fact, I will open it at random for guidance and wisdom. I array the three volumes on my bed, spines facing away from me, and choose one. Then I close my eyes and open the book, letting my eyes fall on the first line I see:
    She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot…
    And instantly I am comforted. If Lizzy could get home, and if all would turn out well for her, then there is hope for me, too. I will read myself into a state of calm, and then in a few hours I will sleep, and who knows where I might wake up tomorrow?

Sixteen
    T he good news when I awake is that I have indeed stopped bleeding, and that means even Barnes won’t be able to come up with a reason to extend my house arrest. I still can’t get over the good fortune of a mere day-and-a-half-long period. One more reason to admire this borrowed body, aside from its glossy hair and slim figure. Anna would say, “I told you so,” she who’s always talking about how women make their periods lengthier and more uncomfortable than necessary by ignoring their biological need to let the blood flow freely and to take it easy for a couple of days while reveling in their womanly power. But normally I don’t have the luxury of taking a few days off to revel in my womanly power, and I doubt that Barnes or anyone of her class does either.
    I get so involved in thoughts of feminism and class struggle and the unfairness of it all that I don’t realize Barnes is standing outside my open door until I hear her gently clearing her throat. I motion for her to come in, as I have done every morning, and I nod my approval, as I usually do, at the dress she chooses for me to wear for the first part of the day. Funny how easily I have fallen into that routine, too.
    I’m so happy to get out of this room that I feel positively sunny at the sight of Mrs. M at the breakfast table, despite her arched eyebrow and laser eye. The sun itself shines through the French doors, and with that the promise of a turn in the shrubbery. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking in terms like “turn in the shrubbery.” I giggle and turn it into a smile, which I bestow on Mrs. M as I spread strawberry preserves on my toast.
    “Stop giggling, my dear. It is most unbecoming in one whose age suggests the tutoring of schoolgirls rather than the manners of one.”
    I put my knife down so that I won’t be tempted to fling it at her.
    She stares at me as if daring me to take the bait.
    But I only smile and dab my lips delicately with a napkin. “Thank you for your kind hints, Mama.”
    Her eyes narrow in skepticism, but I am unmoved. “Well.” She throws her own napkin on the table and stands up. “When you have had your walk, I shall expect you in the sitting room.”
    Round one of the day goes to me.

    H ow lovely to be outside again, the sun warm on my face, the knots in my limbs untangling with the joy of a long walk. As I make my way back toward the house down the gravel path, the pretty cream-colored horse spots me and trots over to the fence that encloses the paddock, nodding its