London was as unlike Glenheath as a peacock was unlike a wren. It swelled with life, boastful and proud. The colours were brighter, the smells richer, the sounds more cacophonous. Even the dogs seemed filled with purpose, trotting beside their masters as if they too were on their way to conduct important business or attend the opera.
Taking the train was not nearly as interesting as it had been a hundred years ago. But it was faster, and that was something. As Jane sat and watched the dreary winter landscape pass by, her spirits were buoyed by the knowledge that she would be in New York City in a matter of hours. She could have flown, but she still wasn’t entirely trusting of airplanes. No matter how many times the principle was explained to her she just couldn’t quite believe that something as large as a plane could stay aloft.
It had been difficult to focus on running the bookstore the past few days. The prospect of meeting her new editor in person was thrilling. At the same time she was relieved to be leaving Brakeston. It had begun to feel claustrophobic. Her chat with Sherman had reminded her that too many people knew too much about each other’s business.
Then there was the small matter of Walter’s dead wife. Jane didn’t know why, but the fact that Walter had never mentioned Evelyn to her was upsetting. And it bothered her that it bothered her. Why should she care if he’d been married?
“I don’t,” she said firmly. “I don’t care at all.”
Across the aisle a boy of about eight turned and looked at her. He’d gotten on at Utica along with an older woman whom Jane assumed to be his grandmother. Ever since, he had been playing some kind of handheld video game that emitted a continuous stream of beeps and chirps that sounded to Jane like electronic crickets. Now the grandmother was asleep.
“Don’t care,” the boy said, mimicking Jane. “I don’t care.” He repeated the phrase over and over as he continued to play his game. Maddeningly, the sound of the game provided a musical background to his chanting. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep.
Jane glared at him. He turned his head and grinned at her. “I don’t care,” he chorused.
Jane bared her fangs at him and watched as the expression on his face changed from smugness to horror. He gasped, dropping his game. He fumbled beneath the seat for it, and when he came up Jane smiled at him. He turned his face away and sat very still, like a small bird in the presence of a cat.
Maybe she should give Walter a chance, Jane mused while looking out the window again. When she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she did like Walter very much. He was precisely the kind of man she allowed her heroines to fall in love with—strong-minded but willing to let her be herself, thoughtful and curious without being condescending, talented but without vanity. Yet if she allowed herself to be with him, she would risk wounding Walter deeply. She was especially wary now that she knew of his tragic past. A dead wife was no small thing. How would he ever accept an undead one? she thought.
It was all rather maddening, and no matter how she looked at it she could not come up with a satisfactory ending for the story. Walter would die and she would continue to live. Or he would ask her to make him a vampire, which she would refuse to do.
She thought for a long time, coming to no conclusions, and was relieved when a voice announced their imminent arrival at Pennsylvania Station. She busied herself with putting her coat on and gathering up her things. Then she sat and watched as the train crawled slowly through the long dark tunnels, until finally they came to a stop at a platform and the doors opened.
Jane stepped out and walked along the platform, the heels of her shoes clicking on the floor and her suitcase rolling behind her. Travel had become much easier since her day, but part of her missed the feeling of sophistication that had once accompanied it. Now people moved about so easily that some of the adventure seemed to have disappeared along with the inconveniences. Now it felt less like traveling and more like simply going somewhere.
As she ascended the escalator to the main concourse she noticed the boy from the train walking with his grandmother ahead of her. He turned back once and, seeing her following, pulled his grandmother quickly in a different direction. Jane cheerfully wondered how long he would have nightmares about the woman on the train, and at what point he would decide that she had never existed at all.
In the station’s cavernous main hall she stood for a moment, feeling the sea of people moving around her. She sensed their excitement, their hurry, their anxiety and joy. It rippled through her like electricity. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be in a city, particularly one as glorious as New York. Now she shivered with anticipation. Despite the passing of two centuries, she still felt like the girl from the countryside coming to London for the first time.
She hurried outside, anxious to be on the streets and among the crowds. As she passed through the doors of the station she felt New York envelop her. Its cacophonous voice filled her ears and its breath blew cold on her skin. For a moment she stood absolutely still, her eyes and ears adjusting to the many different sensations that flooded her mind.
“Move it, lady.”
A man brushed by her, his head bent toward the ground and his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. Jane laughed at his rudeness. It too was part of New York’s charm.
Settling into a taxicab, she could hardy believe she was in New York, on her way to a publisher’s office. All of her previous books had been represented by her brother Henry. Not only had she never once visited a publisher, they hadn’t even known it was her work they had published. But all that was about to change.
I wish Cassie were here, she thought. She imagined sharing the city with her sister, seeing Cassandra’s face as she marveled at the buildings and people, hearing her voice as she chattered joyfully and reached for Jane’s hand, as she always had when they’d visited Henry at his house in London. She would, Jane thought, give anything to be able to see her beloved Cassie again.
The cab swerved in and out of the stream of traffic, ten minutes later pulling to a stop in front of the Browder Publishing building. It towered into the winter sky, its gleaming black glass reflecting the snow that fell lazily from the clouds that crowned the city
She crossed the sidewalk with her suitcase and pushed through the revolving doors, entering a lobby lined with the blown-up, framed covers of some of the most popular books of the past few years. As she walked to the elevators she gazed at them, imagining her own cover hanging among them. Then, just as she reached the elevator bank, she saw that she already was. On the wall the cover of The Jane Austen Workout Book hung between the latest novels from a popular romance writer and the biggest name in thrillers.
Horrified, she gazed at the cover image—a pen-and-ink drawing of a woman (she gathered it was supposed to be her) wearing an Empire-waist dress and holding a small barbell in each hand. It was ghastly, and she found herself feeling sick to her stomach.
The ding of an arriving elevator blessedly distracted her, and she tore herself from the poster and entered the car. Selecting the button for the seventeenth floor, she stood with her eyes closed as she was lifted into the air. Don’t think about it, she told herself. But the image of the book’s cover remained in her mind.
When the elevator stopped, Jane stepped out into a brightly lit reception area. Behind a raised copper and glass desk a lovely young woman sat speaking into a headset. “I’d be happy to connect you with publicity,” she said. “One moment.” She touched a button on a telephone, then smiled at Jane. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Kelly Littlejohn,” Jane said. “I have an appointment,” she added, fearing the young woman might not believe her.
“And you are?” asked the girl.
“Jane,” said Jane. “Jane Fairfax. I’m sorry.”
The girl nodded as if forgiving Jane, then touched the phone panel once again. “Olivia, it’s Chloe. Jane Fairfax is here to see Kelly.”
Olivia, Jane thought. Chloe. They were such stylish names. She wondered if everyone in publishing was a stylish young woman with perfect hair and beautiful clothes and names that sounded like they belonged in her novels. If the assistants are this lovely, I’m almost afraid to meet Kelly Littlejohn.
“Kelly will be out in just a moment,” Chloe said. “You can have a seat over there.” With a nod of her head she indicated a smart leather couch against the wall.
Jane sat down, tucking her suitcase beside the couch. She was suddenly quite nervous, and didn’t know what to do with her hands. She heard Chloe laugh, and for a moment feared the young woman was laughing at her, before realizing that she had simply taken another call. She looked at her shoes. How dreadful they are, she thought. What was I thinking?
She considered going to the restroom and changing (she had dressier shoes in her bag) but was interrupted by someone saying her name. She looked up and saw standing before her a handsome man of perhaps forty. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit of dark brown wool, and the knot in his red and gold patterned tie was perfectly dimpled. His hair, dark but silvering on the sides, was cut short, and Jane could smell the faint scent of violet, orange, and oak coming from him as he extended his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, his voice warm and deep. “I’m Kelly Littlejohn.”