Attempting Elizabeth (7 page)

Bingo. The cabinet had a lock, but the key was, handily, already inserted. I guess the staff didn’t expect Georgiana to be pilfering her brother’s liquor cabinet. There was a decanter of something, probably brandy. Not that I was extremely familiar with hard liquor. I usually only had it in mixed in fruity-tasting girly drinks. Like the daiquiri I’d managed to dump all over myself right in front of Mark yesterday, or two days ago, or whenever the heck it was. I scowled at the thought of Mark as I grabbed the decanter. If he started seeing Ashley I was going to have to tell Charlie he wasn’t allowed to invite Mark over to our apartment. This assumed, of course, I ever managed to get back to reality.

There was a pair of gorgeous cut crystal glasses sitting next to the decanter, but I eyed them suspiciously. They were likely leaded, and frankly, lead poisoning seemed a really long, drawn out way to go. If I was going to opt for the dying, I’d rather do it quickly. I grabbed the decanter and took it with me back to the sitting room.

The thudding and thumping from upstairs had quieted. With any luck Mrs. Younge was done throwing her tantrum and packing and was getting ready to exit the premises.

I unstopped the decanter and took a swig, spluttering and gasping as the brandy burned its way down my throat. It tasted like a cross between turpentine and cold medicine. I’m sure I wasn’t drinking it correctly. It was probably insanely good brandy and a connoisseur would be shocked at my guzzling it. However, I wasn’t going for refined, I was going for maximum effect.

It occurred to me, belatedly, that the decanter was probably leaded too. Oh well. I took another swig. I could feel the burn of the brandy seeping out from my stomach and invading my limbs. A nice, pleasant sort of warmth. My brain hadn’t dulled enough yet for a nap to seem like a good plan.

“To Georgiana,” I muttered as I raised the decanter up. The afternoon light coming in through the window sparkled through the crystal and made the liquor inside look like living, burning amber. I took another healthy swig. The taste was growing on me.

I settled back on the settee, propping a pillow behind my head. It was embroidered in the same style as the sampler, and I began to wonder how many of the dratted things poor Georgiana had been forced to make in her time here.

I studied the brandy decanter seriously. Such pretty shifting colors when held up to the light like this...and contemplated who to toast next.

“Hmm, definitely not Wickham...or the odious Mrs. Younge...how about Darcy!” I’m not entirely sure who I was talking to, but I somehow felt less weird drinking alone if I kept up a running commentary. “That’s who I really want to see. How tragic to be stuck in
Pride and Prejudice
with no Darcy making an appearance. To Darcy!” I took another gulp. I was beginning to feel more than just comfortably warm. I put my feet back up on the other arm of the settee and crossed my ankles.

“Oh Darcy, Mr. Darcy where are you? Although I guess I’m your sister, so that’s, um, awkward.” Another gulp, it seemed an appropriate punctuation to the realization that even if Mr. Darcy came sweeping through the door right now, my throwing myself at him would be out of the question—or get me confined to Bedlam. Incest. Not really the kind of topic one finds in a Jane Austen novel.

“You know. I thought Jordan was going to be a Mr. Darcy. He kind of looks the part: tall, dark, handsome, all that nonsense.”
Gulp.
“But nooooo, Jordan, you were not quite Darcy were you?”
Swig.
“More along the lines of a Wickham.”
Guzzle.
“Damn Wickham! Stuck with you in real life and in—”
Gulp
. “Whatever the hell this is.”

Drat. The brandy was gone. How did I not notice that I’d had so much? I let the decanter slip out of my hand and fall to the floor. Luckily, there was a soft ornately woven rug directly under me so it didn’t break. My arm felt oddly heavy as it dangled over the side of the settee. Actually, I felt heavy all over. And warm. And lethargic. But for the first time since I’d first opened my eyes in the sitting room yesterday, actually for the first time in as long as I can remember, I felt completely relaxed. Relaxed was good, I thought as I let my eyes drift shut. Relaxed is...

~

The rushing sound filled my ears and then I felt the push and pull on my body. I blinked against the bright, afternoon sunlight, and clenched my teeth at the sound of Mrs. Younge’s grating voice.

“...and I must say, he was paying you particular attention yesterday during our stroll. Did you not notice it? Such charming manners, and so handsome.”

Damn.

“Oh, yes. You are right, he is quite handsome,” I replied absentmindedly.

I didn’t even have a headache from all of the brandy I’d consumed. In fact, I bet if I walked back down the hall to the study I’d find that same decanter refilled and sitting just where I’d found it yesterday (was it yesterday?), as if it had never, ever happened.

Maybe it hadn’t, I thought to myself as I mindlessly let Georgiana’s hands work away on the sampler and stared blankly at a spot directly above Mrs. Younge’s head. I mean, I know I lived through it, but if Kelsey gets drunk in a fictional sitting room by herself and there is no one around to see it does it make a sound? This analogy sucks.

I glanced down at my sewing. The same dratted row of roses. This was now the second time I’d filled them in. And guess what? Tomorrow they’ll be unsewn again and I’ll sit here and stitch them right back. Ad infinitum. Running screaming out into the street and throwing myself under the first available carriage was beginning to seem less and less like bad idea.

All right, so falling asleep in the same position and same inebriated (okay, fine, slightly more inebriated) state as I had in the real world didn’t seem to have caused me to jettison out of the book. Neither had telling Mrs. Younge and Wickham that I was onto their little scheme.

New theory: What if I did something really dastardly and completely out of character for Georgiana, could that pop me out of the book? Or at least out of this same scene? Telling Mrs. Younge off had been out of character for Georgiana, but maybe I had to do something even more dramatic. I didn’t want to kill myself but I could kill someone else. Wickham seemed like a good victim.

Hmm, same problem as killing myself—jerk though he was, he was necessary for the storyline. In a way, we have Wickham to thank, odd though it seems, for finally bringing Darcy and Elizabeth together.

Fine, so I wouldn’t kill the bastard. I’d just have to come up with something else jarring enough to shake me right out of the book. As I waited for Wickham to arrive, it occurred to me that
Pride and Prejudice
is a romance, maybe my infraction needed to be romantic in nature.

When Wickham came into the sitting room, after the whole bowing and curtsying charade was over and he had walked over to the settee to sit with me, I launched myself at him. I could hear Mrs. Younge’s shocked gasp as I flung myself at Wickham, pressing Georgiana’s lithe body up against his, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him for all I was worth.

It was surprisingly not unpleasant. I mean, I hate the guy so I would have thought kissing him would make me want to throw up, but no. My traitorous body or mind, I wasn’t sure which, refused to be completely repulsed by him. I have no defense other than he was really, really attractive. And I am apparently, really, really shallow. And I was kissing for my life. Sure, yeah, that was it. Kissing for my life.

After a brief moment of surprise Wickham started kissing me back. Somehow I’d known he would—he was too much of a rake not to respond. And I hate to sound conceited or anything, but I’m a pretty good kisser. Well, better than Georgiana would have, or should have, been anyway. His arms came up and around my midsection, pulling me even closer, fitting Georgiana’s body rather intimately against his. I heard Mrs. Younge say something—I have no idea what, I was really beyond paying attention to her—and then I heard her footsteps leaving the room. The thought that I’d thoroughly compromised Georgiana filtered through my hazy mind as Wickham ran his tongue over mine. Younge was likely headed off to find the butler or another reliable servant to witness my ruining.

Well, I’d shaken things up pretty significantly. This was definitely un-Georgiana-like behavior, and yet I hadn’t magically morphed back into Kelsey. I gave in to the urge to bite softly on Wickham’s lower lip. He really did have an amazingly kissable mouth. And kissing him was strangely exhilarating. I must have a thing for rakes. On that lowering realization, I drew back with a resigned sigh.

“Georgiana—” he started in a raspy voice.
Oh interesting,
I thought. Wickham wasn’t entirely immune to Georgiana. He was definitely attracted to her, but then it was possible he would react that way to anything in a skirt.

“Well, crap,” I cut him off. “That was certainly interesting, but unfortunately for me not earth shattering.” The look on Wickham’s face was priceless. If I hadn’t been so frustrated and teetering on the edge of depression I might have enjoyed it. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, same Bat time, same Bat channel.” I turned and marched out of the open sitting room door, just as Mrs. Younge was skidding up with the butler in tow.

“Hodges,” I nodded to the butler as I swept imperiously by. “Don’t listen to a thing that crazy woman says.”

Hodges’s face remained impassive but I could tell by his eyes that it was costing him. “Yes, Miss,” he responded gravely.

I marched back up the stairs to Georgiana’s room. This was getting old. Sew roses. Cause a scene. Spend the rest of the day up in my room (or like yesterday passed out drunk in the sitting room) waiting for it to start over.

Time for a newer theory: Falling asleep wasn’t a good idea. Maybe the scene jumping happened
because
I was asleep. If I could stay up all night could I somehow make it to the next day? It might not even happen right when I fell asleep, what if it happened at midnight—like Cinderella’s carriage changing back into a pumpkin? There I was sleeping peacefully, innocently away and then
bam
—right back into the scene.

If I could stay awake and could get past whenever the literary clock was resetting itself I could at least continue on with the book instead of repeating this over and over. I mean, if I couldn’t get
out
, getting
through
would be the next best option.

I glanced at the clock on Georgiana’s mantel. It was only a few minutes past two in the afternoon. I always “woke up” in the sitting room a little before 1:30. I was looking at possibly staying up for twenty-four hours. I suddenly wished that I’d snagged a book out of the study. I’d seen a few volumes in there, but the thought of reading hadn’t appealed to me at the time, I’d only been after the booze. If I was going to stay up for an entire twenty-four hours I needed something to occupy my time.

I spent the first hour or so searching Georgiana’s room, hoping she had a novel, or at least a diary, stuffed somewhere that I could waste some time reading. Nope.

I spent an hour sitting in front of the mirror practicing French braiding. I’d always wanted to learn how to French braid my own hair, but had never found the time. It seemed like an opportune time and after about forty-five minutes I’d managed a really spectacular looking braid. I did wonder if I would forget how to do it once I was back to being me again (assuming I ever got back to being me), because I’d mastered the art using Georgiana’s hands.

I ran in place for awhile, then did a few pushups. Georgiana was not in very great shape. Honestly, neither was I, as evidenced by the hiking debacle, but I was feeling ungenerous enough to be hypercritical of her skinny little arms.

I sat cross-legged on the bed and sang ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall at the top of my lungs. Who was going to stop me? Mrs. Younge never seemed inclined to bother me after one of my little outbursts and none of the servants were going to question my insane behavior, at least not to my face. God knows what they were saying amongst themselves though.

I began to feel a little bit like I was in prison. I’m not sure why I’d confined myself to the room. I could have at least brought the brandy with me.

By eleven I had been reduced to obsessively staring at the clock. I was getting tired. Georgiana’s body didn’t like staying up late. She was going to have to toughen up before she came out and had to spend the season dancing until the wee hours of the morning. I wondered if they started training young ladies the year or so before, having them stay up and exercise late at night so they wouldn’t drop dead of exhaustion at their first ball.

I watched the minutes tick down to the next day. 11:57, 11:58, 11:59.

There was the familiar push and pull. It felt stronger now that I was awake for it. The light was so bright it temporarily blinded me.

“...and I must say, he was paying you particular attention yesterday during our stroll. Did you not notice it? Such charming manners, and so handsome.” Mrs. Younge’s hateful voice filled my ears as I blinked the bright early afternoon light out of my eyes.

I stared down at the row of roses on the sampler in disgust. I
was
Cinderella’s pumpkin. Midnight hit and I’d been popped right back into the little scene in the sitting room. Forced to play it again and again.

I felt like crying. Why? If I was going to be stuck in some extracurricular scene from
Pride and Prejudice
why couldn’t it have been something fun? Like Lizzy and Darcy’s wedding night or something? Why wouldn’t time just move on? My hands busily started restitching the row of roses as my brain whirled.

Maybe if I could get through the book,
all
the way through—live the next year and a half or so as Georgiana, I’d get out of it. The book would end and then I’d pop back out to Kelsey. But I’d have to get through it first.

And then it hit me. I’d never actually gotten through it. I might not know exactly how or why Georgiana agrees to elope with Wickham because Austen never spells it out for us. The whole story is only told from Darcy’s perspective. In fact, I have been stuck in a paragraph—
a paragraph
—of the novel for the last four plus days. But whether I understand it or approve of it doesn’t matter. Georgiana
does
agree to run off with him. I had never agreed to the elopement. The closest had been that first day when I said yes to his proposal but then blew up at him and Mrs. Younge when he pressed me on eloping.