Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Read Free Book Online Page B

in this world someone else does the shopping and cleaning up.

Nine
    W hen I return to the house and go up to my room, a pastel blue dress is all laid out for me on the bed. I hate pastel blue. This must be the one Mrs. M is so hot on having me wear for dinner with that Edgeworth person. Barnes, who’s either psychic or has been lying in wait for my return, taps on the door and offers her services for changing clothes and doing hair.
    I notice Barnes’s eyes are red, and her face is blotchy. “Are you all right, Barnes?”
    “Oh, it’s my brother, miss. Understands your silence as proof that all is over and done. Which, I says to him, is the best for all concerned.”
    “My silence?”
    “Don’t you worry none, miss. I’ll see to him.”
    My life is complicated enough, and frankly, I really don’t want to know. I don’t need to try and fix Barnes’s brother’s problems on top of trying to pretend I’m someone else.
    “Well then,” I say, eyeing the pastel blue thing on the bed. “There must be something else I can wear.”
    “But your mother is most particular, miss—” And poor Barnes looks so terrified at the idea of defying Mrs. M’s directive on this point that I sigh and tell her to forget it.
    I survey the array of hairpins and brushes on the dressing table. I open a couple of jars whose contents look like they might be used to moisturize or perfume, but I see nothing that remotely resembles makeup.
    “So Barnes, any chance I might have a little something to color my lips or cheeks, both, preferably?”
    Barnes’s eyebrows fly up, and her right hand grips her chest.
    “Come on, Barnes, I’m sure there are women who at least wear a little color on their cheeks, even if they don’t admit to it.”
    Barnes looks at her shoes. “You do not do such things, miss.”
    “But I’ll bet my mother does.” Actually, I’m bluffing. If Mrs. M is secretly wearing blush or worse, then she does it artfully enough so that it looks natural.
    Barnes looks at me like she is about to become roadkill.
    “I’m right, aren’t I.”
    Barnes starts backing away, not looking me in the eye. “Now, miss, I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Come on, Barnes. Be a pal and borrow some for me. It’ll be our little secret.”
    Barnes has reached the door. Her voice quavers. “Please, miss. Don’t make me. Your mother would—I cannot even begin to imagine what she would do to me.”
    I put my hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Barnes. I’ll sneak in there myself.”
    Barnes clutches at the doorframe. “Oh, please, miss. I beg you. If she sees anything like that on your face, she’ll blame it on me, to be sure.”
    “God. What kind of fascist regime have I landed in?”
    Barnes’s eyes fill, and I force myself to calm down. “It’s all right, Barnes. I’ll be a good girl and leave you in charge of making me beautiful, as I’m sure you’re well qualified to do.”
    I make her sit down for a minute, and after I smile at her encouragingly she recovers enough to start getting me dressed.
    When she’s done with me, I do (or at least the strange face in the mirror does) look pretty good. And I have to admit that deadly as that shade of blue is on my usual self, it does suit the coloring of this borrowed body of mine. I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips, a poor substitute for the arsenal of paints and powders I’m used to having at my disposal. Oh, well. At least I needn’t worry about being the only woman without so much as a drop of lip gloss at a party full of painted-to-the-hilt beauties, which is my version of the classic nightmare of being naked in public.
    When I go downstairs to the drawing room, Mr. and Mrs. Mansfield are waiting for me, along with a broad-faced, middle-aged brunette who turns her dimpled smile on me, and a much younger woman with pale pink ribbons wound into her fiery red hair, dark blue eyes, and a sneer on her face. I curtsey to the strangers and realize that since they aren’t