Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Read Free Book Online

they could be mistaken for the original.
    Dr. Menziger’s voice recalls my attention from the picture. “Is there anything in particular that interests you about that photo?”
    “Photo . . . I have never seen anything so lifelike. It is as if she were in the room with us.”
    “That’s my partner, and I’m sure she would be pleased to hear that. She took the picture herself.”
    “Indeed.” I cannot begin to imagine why Dr. Menziger would choose to display a portrait of her business partner, let alone why a fellow physician would also be such an accomplished artist. And a lady. But they are both ladies. Lady physicians. What a novel idea.
    “Is something amusing you?” Dr. Menziger asks, her expression kind.
    “Not at all,” I say, hoping my face does not betray my thoughts. After all, why should women not be physicians? Is it not they who nurse the sick, who nurture babies, who attend to the unwell and unfortunate of the parish?
    “Tell me why your friends brought you to see me,” she says, folding her square hands before her and gazing at me, her blue eyes twinkling with the hint of a smile on her lips. “And please understand that whatever you say to me in this room is strictly confidential.”
    “All well and good, but will it land me in an asylum?”
    “Interesting choice of words, ‘asylum.’ ” She scribbles into a book of ruled paper with what appears to be a pen, though it has no quill. “We are not so antiquated as all that, though if you mean asylum in terms of a safe place, a sanctuary that keeps away harm, then yes, we offer asylum.”
    I think of the poor creature outside ranting about “the facts” and that young man practically carried through the corridor by, presumably, his parents, who paid no heed to his pleadings. “Pretty words, but I have no wish to be locked away.”
    “It would not be in my interest, or in yours, to keep you anywhere against your will. I’d like to help you.”
    “If that means draining me of offensive humors, as my mother’s favorite medical man likes to say, then I respectfully decline your offer.”
    “I am not so dogmatic about comedy as all that.”
    A hint of a smile plays about Dr. Menziger’s mouth. It takes me a moment to understand her witticism, and I laugh.
    She scribbles into her book. Odd; there is no inkpot anywhere to be seen, yet ink continues to issue from her pen.
    “So,” she says. “Why do you think your friends brought you here?”
    “They think I am Courtney—Stone, is it? But I am not.”
    Dr. Menziger says not a word, just gazes at me with her sparkling blue eyes and nods slightly.
    “I am Miss Mansfield. Jane is my Christian name. I neither look nor sound like this. When last I went to sleep I was in my own bed, on my father’s estate, in Somerset, and it was the year thirteen. 1813. Not”—and there it is, on her desk, a leather-bound book open to the frontispiece, a calendar topped by the numbers 2009. “It was not 2009. I am not ill, Dr. Menziger. I am simply lost.”
    She nods. “How does that make you feel?”
    “How would it make anyone feel? Confused. Frightened sometimes. Curious . . . how, for example, does that lamp on your table emit light without candles?”
    She nods kindly. “I understand you were treated last night for an injury to your head.” She indicates some papers on her desk. “Your thoughts and feelings could be simply the result of your concussion, and in that case will likely pass soon enough. Memory loss is another not uncommon result, usually temporary. And Paula did mention that you recently broke off an engagement, which would certainly contribute to your emotional state.”
    She poises her writing instrument atop her paper. “Do you have any history of mental illness? How about in your family?”
    What an impertinent question. As if any family would reveal such information. “Indeed not.”
    “Have you any thoughts of hurting yourself? Any suicidal thoughts?”
    “Of course not.