Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

and left-handed chatter that passes for “respectable” discourse. Obey your parents, your elders, your aunts and uncles, your vicar, even if he who preaches charity on Sunday says the maintenance of fatherless children should be another parish’s burden.
    And all at once, I hear Anna’s words: Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now .
    “There is one thing, though,” Wes says, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and biting his lip. “Do you think you might consider not saying that you don’t know your friends or that you’re someone else? Not that I think you’re putting on an act or anything; I mean, you did hit your head pretty hard—but you’re making your friends really nervous. Uncomfortable. Scared, even. And when people are scared for their friends, they start putting pressure on them. They can’t make you go back to Dr. Menziger. Or anyone else for that matter. But they’ll be on your case to do it night and day. All I’m saying is, it would go easier for you if you could just agree that you’re you.”
    “But I know nothing about this woman. I would be seen as the impostor I am.”
    He stands stock-still, his eyes wide. “ ‘This woman’? Now you’re scaring me. You actually don’t remember me, do you? Or Anna. Or Paula. You really truly think you’re—” He shakes his head, as if to clear it.
    “That is correct.”
    “Jane Mansfield.”
    I nod.
    “And I take it you don’t mean the screen goddess of the 1950s. I suppose that should be a relief.”
    “Whatever are you talking of?”
    “Where does this Jane Mansfield come from?”
    “I wish you would do me the honor of attending me when I speak to you. I told you all this already. Or is there another method to your questions?”
    “I know, I know. Your father’s estate is in Somerset. You play that stupid DVD till it’s worn out. You hit your head on the bottom of a pool, and all of a sudden you’ve stepped right out of the pages of Pride and Prejudice .”
    “Indeed, those pleasing little theatricals resemble my life more than anything else in this place.”
    “Would you please just consider telling people you’ve got temporary memory loss from the concussion? Which is, after all, the truth. At least a dozen reliable sources online mention amnesia as a possible symptom. And confusion. I’m sure Paula’s cousin mentioned that to you.”
    “She also mentioned that those infernal pills would make me feel like myself again.”
    “Do what you want. It’s your life.”
    “It does not feel like my life.”
    “It’ll pass. I promise. I’m going to sleep, okay? On the couch this time. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
    I smile at him. Do what you want. It’s your life. It may not be my life, but his words may very well be the sweetest music I have ever heard.

Seven
    A rooster is crowing, the same sound to which I awaken every morning, and for one delicious moment I am back in my very own bed in Mansfield House. But then I open my eyes and I am in Courtney’s bedchamber; it was the sound that deceived me.
    A quick rap on the door and Wes pops his head in, and in that same moment the most gorgeous pianoforte concerto envelops me. And somehow I am not displeased to be here still.
    Wes approaches the bed, bearing a tray with two tall white cups of fragrant coffee, which he places atop the bookcase.
    “I thought you might like to wake up to Beethoven instead of that nightmare of an alarm clock,” he says, indicating the box with the glowing numbers that I encountered yesterday morning.
    “But where are the musicians?” I cannot make out whence the music comes; it sounds as if the pianoforte, oboes, flute, and bassoons are in the room. Every note is so clear and crisp it resonates in my chest.
    He looks at me quizzically, then fiddles with a small white rectangular object which is standing on the bookcase and a larger, grayish rectangle with letters and symbols all over it. The