Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

to greet me in such a familiar manner, and without my acknowledging him first. Perhaps he is a close friend or even a brother to Courtney? I suppose I should greet him, lest I raise even more speculation. Yet that painting on his arm—perhaps it is a tattoo, like the ones I have read about in a travel diary. What sort of company does Courtney keep, and what sort of person must she be?
    “Good evening,” I say, hoping my smile is polite but not too encouraging.
    Apparently, my hope is a vain one, for the painted man emerges from behind the bar, strides over to me, and envelops me in a hug. “Darling, your friends told me what happened. Thank God you’re okay.” His accent is more familiar than those I have heard thus far, perhaps English, though not genteel.
    The man whispers in my ear, “So when are you going to dump that loser for good and marry me? You told me he was history, darling.”
    I feel my face burning, and I extricate myself from his grip. Most certainly not a brother. “Upon my word, I—”
    “I know, a drink,” he says, grinning broadly. “It’s on me. Loser buys his own. So does the other one. You’d better hope I don’t start telling tales to the girls.” He’s off to the bar, and so are we, it seems.
    I find myself seated before the bar on a high-legged stool with a plush red seat, flanked by the two gentlemen. I learn the waiter’s name, Glenn, when Wes greets him. Glenn is none too friendly to Wes, but Frank receives only a cold glance and a terse “eight” from Glen, which is apparently the price of Frank’s drink. Eight shillings for a drink sounds rather steep, though what Frank extracts from his pocket is a bank-note in the amount of ten dollars with “United States of America” emblazoned on the top. I have long been curious about the former colonies, but never did I imagine anything like this.
    “Your money’s no good here,” Glenn says to me with a wink as he places before me a large, somewhat triangular-shaped glass with a pedestal. In it is a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid with what looks like four large green olives skewered onto a thin stake of wood. I raise the glass and take a tentative sniff, and my nose clears from the fumes and my mouth waters, though I have never had such a drink in my life.
    I take a tiny sip of the icy liquid—delicious. Strong and salty and tasting of olives and bracing. Perfect for the hot weather, which, now that I put my mind to it, is not hot at all inside this establishment. It is, in fact, strangely cool in comparison to the outdoors. I take a bigger sip. Glenn raises his own glass to me, and I raise mine to him and take a drink. I could easily become accustomed to this manner of refreshment.
    And then I am thunderstruck. Am I actually sitting inside a public house, a gentlewoman in a public house, accompanied by two gentlemen who are neither brother nor cousin nor father, but most likely members of the lower orders and not gentlemen at all? Not that entering a public house with genteel male relations would be any less scandalous, but this is highly improper.
    “Easy now,” Wes says, pointing to my drink. “I don’t know that vodka and a concussion is the wisest combination.”
    “Vodka.” I savor the word on my tongue. And drink some more.
    Frank lounges next to me, leaning on the bar and taking long swallows from a long-necked, brown glass bottle. “So. You don’t hate me anymore?”
    “Does it signify? Apparently, you and Court—rather, you and I—had a lucky escape from what all parties agree would have been a most imprudent marriage.”
    “Courtney, you’re out of control with this weird talking. I know you hit your head and all, but you’ve got to stop watching those movies.”
    “I thank you for your kind hints.”
    Frank, who has put the bottle to his lips, sputters with laughter. “Concussion, my ass. You’re not fooling anyone. Except maybe him.” He juts his chin towards Wes.
    “I have not been accustomed