His and Hers
by Dawn Calvert
ISBN: 0821780603

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 PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Jane Ellingson, Woman Wonder with a shredded cape flapping in the virtual breeze, watched as the barista poured a bag of beans into the espresso machine. You knew your life was up to no good when you could seriously relate to beans being chewed up and spit out in a high-pitched whine.

Some days you’re the machine, some days you’re the bean.

Jane buried her head in her hands, pressing her fists to her ears to dim the sounds of conversation, chairs scraping across the wooden floor and bursts of steam. The voice of a cheerful employee sailed above the din. Normally, she loved Starbucks, craved Starbucks. Not today. She stared at the cup in front of her, holding a White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino with a shot of peppermint, no whip. Hadn’t even yet lifted it to her lips. Maybe wouldn’t at all, given the stomach crawling over itself in agony and the headache pressing at the edges of her temple.

Unbelievable. One pretty great life, destroyed in a matter of days. Twenty-six years to get to this point and less than a week to chuck it all down the drain.

She didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately, all she could do was think about it. Run it over and over in her mind. The face of her boss, Senator Alice Tate’s chief assistant, open-mouthed in disbelief as he stared at his screen. Jane had included a paragraph on the senator’s stint in alcohol rehab in a news release on the bill that would assist struggling apple growers. The same news release Jane had so efficiently distributed to the media list. It was her job, after all. She did it so well she’d been given the “Woman Wonder” nickname after only a few months on the job. But this time, it turned out she had a challenge with the cut and paste functions.

“You knew,” Chase had said, between lips pulled so tight, they had turned white, “that was something we were working on in case of a news leak.” He had clutched his thick brown hair so hard, Jane was sure he was going to pull it out in clumps. “We weren’t intending to announce it.”

And she could only stammer, “I– I–”

Because she had no comeback. No excuse. She’d been in a hurry to get home and have time to change for her date with Byron. He of the brilliant, white-toothed smile and deep blue eyes. He, who it seemed, she’d waited all her life to meet.

The news release had been a last-minute task, like most in the senator’s office. A hasty, pull-this-bit-from-this draft and this-from-that one. She hadn’t proofread, for the first time in as long as she could remember, or she would have seen what she’d accidentally included.

A politician who championed tough legislation on drunk driving could not have it hit the press that she struggled with her own alcohol issues. Especially if an enterprising member of the press dug deep enough to find what else was there.

Jane rubbed one pink manicured finger hard into her forehead, as though physical pain could help obliterate the memory.

Byron, when he’d arrived at her apartment, found her shattered from her day and the realization she could be out of a job. She’d sunk into his familiar arms, heard him murmur in her ear and somehow believed everything would be all right. If only she had him around permanently, she’d thought, to soothe her every night, instead of seeing him just a couple of times a week.

They could have a life, the two of them. In a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Maybe kids, eventually, on a swing set in the backyard, under the watchful eye of Mother of the Year candidate Jane and a protective, but playful, collie named Shep. Or Bob. Something. One of those names people gave to dogs.

Jane, the kids and the dog would wait patiently for a smiling Byron to come home from his job at the investment firm. Where he would have skyrocketed through the ranks fast enough to be able to afford that house in the suburbs and all the Pottery Barn furniture that would go inside it. She knew just what colors she’d paint the walls.

The picture had its appeal. Didn’t matter that Jane didn’t have much experience with kids. Or dogs. Or even like the suburbs, when you compared that sort of life to the excitement of the city.

What mattered was that it was a life. One she’d been sure she’d grow used to. Even like. Better yet… love.

In a burst of spontaneity that at the time had seemed so romantic, she’d whispered the idea in Byron’s ear. “Let’s get married.” And felt his entire body freeze.

“What?” he’d choked.

That had been her chance. She could have, just that fast, turned it into a joke. But instead, she’d repeated the words, with a desperation even she heard in her voice.

He’d ruffled her hair, a little more firmly than usual, and broken from their embrace to bolt for the bottle of wine he’d brought, banging the cupboards open and shut in a search for glasses. She’d stood in the middle of her Persian lookalike rug, surrounded by generic off-white walls, feeling more alone than she ever had. With her boyfriend no more than six feet away, turning a visible shade of pale beneath the tan he’d acquired on a sales reward trip to Mexico. Tiny arrows of hurt stabbed at Jane’s heart until it felt like a sieve, raining tears she couldn’t shed.

They’d put on music and drunk wine. Lots of wine. Just as her eyelids had begun to flutter between open and shut, she’d seen Byron, shoes in hand, tiptoe from the couch to the door. And, she’d been sure, out of her life.

She highly suspected that, once terrified, boyfriends rarely returned to the scene of the terrification.

Just because she’d asked him to marry her. How… sixties of him. She’d be offended, angry, glad to be rid of him. If only she didn’t love him. How sixties of her.

As if it wasn’t enough for her to delete her own chance at ever-after happiness, the very next day, she’d had to try and wreck Holly’s, too. Holly, who’d been her loyal friend since the ninth grade. Jane stifled a groan as she relived spilling an entire glass of red wine down the back of Holly’s wedding dress as it hung on display for the bridesmaids to admire.

It had been an accident. An accident. One minute Jane was talking to redheaded Brianna Brisbee about the groomsmen they’d be matched with and the next, wine was spreading like blood in a horror film.

Holly wasn’t speaking to Jane at the moment. Wouldn’t let her FedEx a replacement or find a dry cleaner who worked stain miracles. Nothing. “Just stay away from me,” her friend had said. The wedding was in two days.

Stay away. What did that mean when you were supposed to be a bridesmaid?

Jane pressed the small of her back into the stuffing of the coffee shop chair, letting her head rest against the top, and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t the first time she’d screwed things up in her life, but it could be the first time the screwups had all converged at once.

Maybe she could write a book. A memoir. Call it, Jane: A Life in Chaos. Only one problem with that. If you’re going to have chaos, you pretty much have to pull it out with a happy ending or no one will buy the book.

Hmmm. All things considered, she’d put her chances of a happy ending at about fifty million to one.

Her finger brushed against something on the windowsill. Something that made a clinking sound on the aluminum. Jane let her head flop to that side and looked down to see a small stone, with a piece of paper tucked under it. She pulled both upward for a better look. The paper appeared old and fragile and the stone unnaturally heavy for its size.

The sport of wishing. A guide for those so disposed.

So disposed. Hah! Was she ever. A strangled laugh made its way out of her throat. Like she hadn’t done enough wishing in her life, for all the good it had ever done.

“You okay?” Jane’s head whipped upward to see a freckled face crinkling in concern. “Something wrong with your drink? We can make you a new one.”

More frappuccino can take care of a lot. But not this. Jane shook her head.

“What’s that?” The green-aproned woman pointed to the paper and the stone in Jane’s hand.

As if she knew. “Nothing.” Jane grabbed for her purse, hurriedly tucking both into it. “Just a– Doesn’t matter.” She pushed herself up. “And my drink is fine. I’m taking it with me.” She stood, waiting for the woman to move aside. “Nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

Thank God she could still lie. Sort of.

She left the place, pushing so hard against the door that it banged into a metal chair outside and she found herself apologizing. To a chair.

Then she walked the seven blocks home, past mild-mannered houses with neatly trimmed lawns, past the Italian restaurant that had started cooking for the day, sending its spicy aromas into the air, past the row of storefronts that offered everything from fresh bagels to stationery, and two more coffee shops.

Her shoes beat out a steady rhythm on the sidewalk, where she carefully avoided cracks, in order not to break her mother’s back. Her mother. Who had moved to Florida last year and even now was soaking up the sun, oblivious to her only daughter’s most recent debacles. The response would be kind but baffled. Why did this sort of thing always happen to Jane, her mother would wonder aloud, and not to Troy?

Jane’s older brother Troy led a predictable, organized life, working as a tax attorney in Seattle. Things didn’t happen to Troy that he hadn’t first “penciled out” and made a conscious decision on. The siblings couldn’t be more different.

She glanced to her left before stepping into the street. A car slowed and came to a stop, the driver waving her across. After raising her hand, Jane crossed the street to her apartment building, recently converted from an old elementary school into highly desirable units with hardwood floors and lots of windows. Her apartment had been a seventh grade classroom, once upon a time. Mary loves Jimmy was still scratched into the old wood in a corner of her bedroom closet, apparently missed by the remodeling crew. She loved the place. Hoped she would be able to keep paying the rent on it, now that she was likely not employed.

Home, on a Thursday. When she should have been at the office, preparing press releases and on-the-road-in-the-home-state schedules and answering the phone with a brisk, “Senator Tate’s Office, Jane Ellingson speaking.” The day off had been her boss’s idea and not a bad one since the senator had a reputation for tantrums. At least Jane would get paid for this day, if not for any that followed.

She turned her key in the lock and stepped inside her apartment, taking off her jacket and laying it on a chair. She avoided looking at the couch, where she’d been curled up, half-asleep, when Byron made his escape. And she stayed away from the bedroom, where her dress for Holly’s wedding hung on the front of the closet, practically shouting the fact that it, if not the bride’s gown, remained stain-free.

If only… she could turn the clock back. Make it all go away. Start over again.

Wish all you want. Won’t make it–

Hold on. The sport of wishing. She’d almost forgotten what she’d tucked in her purse. The crazy thing from the windowsill. Somebody’s idea of a joke.

She reached into her purse to pull it out, dropped into an overstuffed chair and lifted her legs up and onto the ottoman. Absently, she rubbed the stone between her fingers. It felt smooth, except for one rough spot. Then she looked at the paper, which listed instructions for wishing. Who knew you needed a manual? She’d been doing it all of her life, without any directions. Could be part of the problem.

Head to one side, she reflected on how much easier life would be if it came with instructions. Graduate from high school, the checklist would say, without riding in the car of Amber Wycliff, who, it turned out, earned money to buy her designer purses by selling drugs on the side, and without downing spiked punch at prom and accidentally knocking down one date and one chaperone, who ended up with a broken nose and a minor concussion, respectively. In the official photo with its background of fake clouds, Jamie Wheeler’s puffy red nose had matched the corsage she’d been so proud to pin on him, stabbing herself with the pin only once. But at least he’d been willing to have a photo taken. To remember the night.

Like either of them, or old Mrs. Delbert, could forget it.

Moving on. Graduate from college without… Oh, forget it. Life didn’t come with a checklist. Back to the instructions. She placed the stone in the palm of her right hand, just as the paper said. Next, it told her, form a wish.

No. Problem. What-so-ever.

She began to rub the stone in a circular motion, repeating the words a posse ad esse over and over. The part of her that thought it a silly thing to do was quickly replaced by the part disposed to wishing. Really disposed.

Next, it said, she should wait for the stone to heat, and then voice the wish aloud. It was, actually, getting warm. The wish bubbled on the edge of her tongue, frantic to make itself known. “Please,” she said, in a voice surprisingly strong, “take me away from here. Let me start all over. Someplace where no one knows me.” Wouldn’t it be great to wipe out all the mistakes of the past and start from scratch? No one ever got a chance like that. They had to carry baggage around until it had them hunched over and leaning to one side. She repeated the Latin words again, in case they hadn’t been heard the first time by… whoever. “A posse ad esse.”

Might be good to know what the words meant but, on the other hand, when playing with something that probably came out of a cereal box, it didn’t matter. They had a certain lyrical quality, she thought while fighting disappointment that nothing had happened. And never would happen. Because she was stuck with this life she had created, the one that resembled a stock car race, where she crashed and burned at every turn. Not because she barreled into other cars, but just because she was there, riding around the track. Unlike Troy, her steady, practical brother, who stuck to the back roads – one lane, no traffic, no roadblocks.

She should try it his way, sometime.

Her hand dropped to one side, fingers barely holding on to the stone. Just how low had she sunk, thinking this cereal prize could actually–

A loud boom on her right jarred the thought from her mind. Then a rushing, deafening sound of air, whirling and spinning all around her, and her body knocked straight out of the chair and into darkness, where she tumbled head over heels. Slivers of light appeared in vivid shades of red, green, white, until her eyes squeezed shut in self-defense. Panic shot through every inch of her, rendering her limbs useless.

Don’t play with matches, her mother had told her. Not… Don’t play with wishing instructions. Oh, God. Really. This was. Bad. She tried to move an arm. It remained glued to her side. The thing couldn’t have taken her seriously. No one started again. Ever.

She tried a new wish. Okay. I didn’t mean it. Please stop–

And it did. The rushing noise disappeared, replaced by a steady clip-clopping sound and a movement that jerked her back and forth until she put a hand down on each side to keep her balance, petrified to open her eyes. She felt smooth, supple leather beneath her fingers and heard a horse whinny.

A horse? Not only the sound, but the smell of a horse and…leather. The feel of clothing. Lots of it, weighing her down and cinching her in tight. More clothing than she’d had on a minute ago, that much was for sure.

Jane pried open one eye and then the other. Snapped them shut and opened them again. She was in some sort of moving carriage. The seat squeaked beneath her as she looked down at the clothing that felt soft and unfamiliar against her skin. Blue silk, covering her from neck to ankles. The skirts were voluminous, with rows of fabric edged in lace. She was wearing some sort of long jacket over the dress. The jacket had tight upper sleeves that were bell shaped at the end, with more lace. Lots of it. What the–? She’d been wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that fit perfectly, with a pink tank top under her white gauze shirt. And flip-flops. Not an explosion of silk.

She put a hand up to touch her hair and realized that a hat sat firmly on top, with long ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. How bizarre. Had she wished herself right into a theatre piece?

As the carriage slowed to a stop, Jane’s chin lifted and her shoulders drew up straight and back all by themselves, as though someone was pulling invisible strings while she sat back, an interested observer. Weird. Really weird. And the door. It was opening, inches from where she sat. She watched, fascinated, as a gloved hand reached inside.

“Miss Ellingson,” said a man in perfect, cultured British tones. “Welcome to Afton House. This is indeed a delight.”

A delight. Not a shock, a surprise or a bolt from Heaven. A delight.

He knew her name. But she didn’t have any idea who he was or why he would be standing outside her horse-drawn carriage dressed like someone straight out of the nineteenth century. She opened her mouth to ask, but other words came tripping across her tongue. In a lilting British accent. “Thank you, Mr. Dempsey,” she said, extending her gloved hand to take his. One foot moved forward, toward the carriage step, as her other hand grasped her skirts.

No. Oh, no. Something that required this much coordination was sure to end in disaster. Damn. And he had a great-looking suit on, too. Too bad it was going to end up covered in mud or something worse after she’d–

Descended. With a grace as alien to her as the funny half boots on her feet, she ended up standing on the ground after nothing more than a few delicate steps. Standing, actually, straight up. No dry cleaner’s dream roll in the mud for either one of them.

Now that was a delight.

Her body. Had to have been possessed. That was it. By someone with coordination. Social graces. And a British accent?

Wait. What was that? She heard herself speaking again.

“I should like for you to meet my aunt, Mr. Dempsey.” She nodded toward the carriage. “Mrs. Hathaway.”

A plump woman, whose eyes blinked so rapidly, it must have been difficult for her to see, emerged, murmuring pleasantries.

Interesting. Her aunt. Even though both her mother and father had been only children.

“Mrs. Hathaway. Welcome,” Mr. Dempsey said with a broad smile.

“And my sister,” she heard herself continue. “Miss Anne Ellingson.” One hand extended toward the carriage.

A fresh-faced girl, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling, prepared to alight. She looked about fifteen or sixteen. Her sister? And how was it Jane knew the names of these people and they knew hers?

Nothing made sense here, least of all the carriage with the sour-faced driver and the let’s-just-call-it-what-it-is mansion they stood before. Yet, she could not feel her face contorting in the way it usually did when confused and this Mr. Dempsey wasn’t giving any indication he could see she was confused. Instead, he turned in one grand motion, crooked both arms and offered them to her and her aunt.

They took them as though it were the most natural thing in the world and began walking toward the house, shoes crunching on the dirt, the teenaged Anne following closely behind. Jane’s skirts swayed elegantly as she moved, with the confident step of someone other than herself.

This was some…dream?

She could feel Mr. Dempsey’s warm arm beneath her gloves and his jacket. As he began speaking, she heard a giggle and tossed a look that seemed like a frown in the direction of her “sister,” who quickly pulled her face straight. Wow. That seemed a little harsh to do. Nothing wrong with a giggle. Jane tried to follow with an apologetic smile, to no avail.

Hello? Person inside here, not being allowed to do what she wanted to with her body?

Meanwhile, Mr. Dempsey, whoever the hell he was, had begun talking again. “My father, alas, has taken to his bed. He is once again ailing. But he insisted that nothing should deter your visit, which we have anxiously awaited these many days.”

They had awaited her visit. Anxiously, even. Very nice. To be wanted. Not something a lot of people seemed to be doing when it came to her, at least not lately.

“Of course,” Jane murmured, with perfect diction. “But I do so hope your father will recover his health soon.”

Mr. Dempsey turned toward her, rewarding the concern with a perfect smile. He was good-looking, in a chiseled, GQ sort of way, with dark blond hair and green eyes. He stood even with Jane’s five foot seven inch height and walked with a confident stride, something she herself had never managed to do. Until…now. Weird.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Dempsey, ushering them through the door to the massive house, where a servant gave a deep bow.

“I confess I have also been eager for a visit to Afton House,” Jane said, with a tip of her head.

Their eyes locked. Jane tried to look away but couldn’t. Her head remained firmly in place, as though someone else held it between two hands.

And she could swear, ninety percent for sure, that she saw an actual twinkle in his eye. It was there and then gone. A twinkle. But you only read about something like that in books. She’d never actually seen one in real life.

A pause. And whatever had been holding her upright seemed to loosen its grip, allowing her to breathe freely for what seemed the first time in several minutes. Except that breathing freely seemed to be a relative term since something hard and unyielding on the inside of the dress seemed to be working at cross-purposes with any movement she might try to make.

“Ah,” said Mr. Dempsey, a furrow appearing between his perfect brows. “She has decided to retire. I shall take my leave.” A courtly half-bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Who’s retiring? And who are you?” Jane blurted.

He turned to her in surprise. “James Dempsey,” he answered, in a tone that clearly said that should explain everything.

She shook her head. “Why are you dressed that way? Better yet, why am I dressed this way?”

He regarded her gravely for what felt like an eternity before saying, “You, Miss Ellingson, are the heroine of the book Afton House. And I am the hero of the tale. At your disposal.” With a dip of his chin, he made it clear he awaited her joyous approval. Or possibly screams of delight, if she had any waiting to leap forward.

Jane looked at James, then at Anne and back again. “Book,” she repeated.

“Book.” As though this should all be so obvious. A vague sort of suspicion began to creep through her, beginning at her feet and moving upward until it came barreling out of her mouth. “And exactly who is the she?”

“Our author. Miss Mary Bellingham.”

“Author.”

“We shall resume in the morning. Surely you have no expectation she will write at every hour,” James replied. He made Jane sound demanding.

“No. Of course not.” Did she?

“She is well tired today. It is such when one is undertaking the beginning of the story.”

“The beginning.” She felt dim-witted, repeating everything, but she had to get this straight. “And you’re saying I’m supposed to be in the story? Me. Jane Ellingson. Actual person.”

He exhaled while his eyes did a slight but unmistakable roll. “You, Jane Ellingson, are more than in the story. You are, in fact, the second most important character in the story.” He gave a sweeping gesture and another gallant bow. “After me, you understand.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jane blinked at James. “Second most important character,” she repeated.

He rose from his deep bow to flash a killer smile. As if that were the only answer necessary.

Anne turned to the waiting servant and chirped, “If I may be shown to my rooms?”

The servant dropped a hasty and deferential curtsy, murmuring something unintelligible as she led the girl away. “Good-bye, Sister,” Anne said.

Sister. Right, that was… Her? Jane lifted a hand in uncertain response. Then she turned back to James, who seemed to have bits of amusement playing around the corners of his mouth. She’d had about all she could take of people writing her off. Wait…writing…her… She shook her head. “Living, breathing people do not end up in the pages of a book,” she said. “Fiction is just that. Fiction. Something an author makes up.” There. He’d understand now.

One of his shoes beat out a tip-tap against the floor. “And how are we to believe an author is able to portray her characters if not for the fact that she pours her heart into their creation? They do, or, rather…We do exist, Miss Ellingson, in a world entirely of her making.”

“Her– making. Mary Bellingham.”

“The very one.”

“But I already exist.” This shouldn’t be so hard. Who had to argue their existence? “Mary Bellingham, whoever she is, didn’t,” she bit back stronger words before adding, “make me up.”

He stilled his foot, pondering it for a moment before sweeping his gaze upward and saying, “As you wish.” His green eyes held hers, making it clear he indulged her with a heroic level of patience.

Irritation stabbed at her. As you wish, he’d said. As though she were the one losing touch with reality here–

Wait a minute. Oh, no. Wish. She had. In fact, she’d asked to be taken away to a place where she could start over. Somebody had heard that wish. But the somebody hadn’t figured out that “away” meant a pulsating city or an island in the Caribbean, and not the pages of a book?

“Your manner of speaking is most unusual.” His forehead puckered.

“American,” she answered, while her gaze scanned the hall, looking for something, anything, to hold on to. Had she really wished herself into this place, with its elegant, polished hallway and gold fixtures? It looked real, smelled real. She took a few steps to her right, laying her hand on a table. It felt real, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.

 “American,” James repeated, sounding unconvinced.

“Yes– We– aren’t British.” Mary Bellingham could chime in anytime now, supplying sparkling dialogue. Jane stifled a small snort, earning a frown from James.

Again, she let her gaze take in her surroundings. On the other hand, “playing” here, for however long the wish, or dream, whatever it was, lasted, might not be all that bad. Could the table be…? Felt like marble.

He motioned toward another servant, who had glided in unnoticed by Jane. “The girl will show you to your rooms,” James said. “I pray that you will rest comfortably. We are certain to have a tiring day tomorrow. I believe we are to begin at dinner.”

There was…what? Some sort of a schedule of events issued to the hero? Jane wrapped her arms hard around her waist, which felt a whole lot smaller than usual, and fanned her face with a gloved hand. She stopped, bringing her hand closer. Gloves. Of pale yellow. Who wore gloves? Then she caught sight of James’s expectant face. “And so– you and I will be at the dinner,” she stumbled. “Together. You’re the– um…hero?” Just to be clear.

“Indeed.” He flashed a quick grin.

She wobbled a smile in his direction. Her hero. Too bad more men weren’t actually assigned to that role. James Dempsey, hero. At your service. She wondered if he had a white steed, by any chance, and the ability to scoop up damsels in distress, unstress and kiss them passionately until–

Wooo. Yes. Something to think about. She fanned her face harder, ruffling the hair on her forehead. She’d never tried damseling, but it could be fun. This time her smile had more substance to it. “Well. Until the morrow, then.” Hah. She could be as British as the next person, especially when it was all make-believe, due to disappear any minute now.

“Until the morrow.” James bestowed yet another courtly bow upon her.

Jane tried to suck in a deep breath, stopping short when something pinched at her sides. Whatever was making her waist smaller had her breathing at half-capacity.

James waited.

And he was waiting for…? Oh. “Thank you, kind sir.” Yes. She’d get the hang of this. A teenage love of all things Brontë was sure to pay off.

James gave the slightest nod and Jane followed the servant, a mere slip of a teenager, through a winding hallway and up an impressive staircase, their footsteps tap-tap-tapping in synch. They passed finely appointed furniture that looked both expensive and uncomfortable. Candles flickered in sconces on walls dominated by paintings the size of one whole wall in her apartment and high ceilings gave an impression of spacious grandeur. Looked a lot like a home she’d seen profiled on the History Channel once.

Her thoughts raced at lightning speed. A book. A story in the process of being written. Her, in it. As the heroine.

An author, Mary Bellingham, credited with “inventing her.” Jane’s parents might have some trouble with that idea, since they mostly claimed that honor. And now she, Jane, was supposed to embrace the idea that someone else would decide what would happen to her, would script her life, would–

Wait just a minute. Someone else scripting her life. Controlling what she did, what she said. Might not be an entirely bad idea. Someone who didn’t have Jane’s decision-making record could do a better job of it. They absolutely couldn’t do any worse.

She supposed she could hang around for a while, see what happened, if she could learn a thing or two. She still had the stone, didn’t she? Her hand darted to her pockets, searching. Yes. She rubbed it between her fingers, just to be sure. There was the rough spot she remembered.

Okay, then. She could do it. Probably. Maybe. It was an insane idea and no one would ever believe her, but sometimes you had to let go of what made sense and take a chance. She clutched the banister hard for support.

When they reached the top of the stairs, the servant led the way down a long hall. “What’s your name?” Jane asked, hurrying to keep up. This skirt, with what had to be yards and yards of fabric, wasn’t the easiest to manage. It seemed to have a life of its own. She wouldn’t be at all surprised to see it take off running ahead of her.

The servant turned to look over her shoulder. “Sarah, miss.”

“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”

The girl shot her a confused look. “Yes, miss.”

“Do you know much about…uh…this story? About Mr. Dempsey?”

“I could not say, miss.” Sarah’s voice was barely audible.

“Oh. Sure,” Jane said quickly. “I understand.” She didn’t. “Where is my sister staying?” She’d always wanted a sister. They could be best friends, share each other’s secrets, trade clothes… She hoped, really hoped, the unseen Mary Bellingham would write it that way. Something like a giggle began in the small of her stomach and rose quickly. She passed a hand over her mouth.

“Miss Anne Ellingson is next to you, miss.” They came to a stop in front of a broad wooden door. Gravely, Sarah pointed to the one just beyond and then opened the door of the room apparently assigned to Jane.

It swung open as if in slow motion. Inside she saw a four-poster bed and a dark wooden dressing table with a mirror and hairbrushes on its top. She hesitated and then walked inside the room for a closer look. A nightgown was laid out on the bed. White, high-necked and long-sleeved, with lace around the edges, it was the great-grandmother version of the camisole and panties she normally slept in. Victoria could keep any number of secrets in that thing.

Sarah followed her, reaching up to tug at the jacket Jane wore.

“Oh.” Jane turned back and took a step away, looking at her. “You can go now.”

“But, miss–”

“Really. I’m good. Go ahead.” To prove the point, she removed her hat, which turned out to be some sort of unbearably sweet close-fitting cap kind of thing, and set it on the bed.

The servant clasped her hands in front of her. “Good?” she repeated, as if Jane were speaking a foreign language, instead of perfectly acceptable English.

“I can handle this myself,” Jane said, by way of clarification. She hoped it was true.

Sarah walked back toward the door, where she lingered for a moment, looking uncertain. Then she seemed to make a decision and bobbed another curtsy. “Miss.” She went out the door, closing it behind her.

Jane surveyed the room. Gold curtains hung from ceiling to floor, set off by wallpaper striped with red and gold. Armchairs and another small table, with books and a vase of fresh flowers, were against the other wall. The room was formal, elegant. Feminine, without being fluffy. She liked it. Not Pottery Barn but nice. Very nice.

A servant at her disposal, a handsome man as her “hero,” a sister she’d never before had, someone else writing her life… There could definitely be worse things.

As bizarre as the whole scenario sounded, wouldn’t it be something if it was true? If she really was living in the midst of a novel, with the blank pages of her life yet to be filled in and most important, a happy ending in her future?

She’d wished for a place to start all over again. Sure, she wouldn’t have dreamed of anything like this, but didn’t people say that truth was stranger than fiction? Wait. In this case, would it be fiction stranger than… Never mind.

A new beginning. It might just be weird enough to work.

It couldn’t be bedtime. Not yet. Jane had no sense of the time of day and there wasn’t a clock to be found anywhere in the room, but she knew, just knew, she was not ready to sleep. Her mind raced, asking questions she couldn’t answer.

Back and forth she paced until she was sure she’d begun to wear a path in the rug. A character in a novel. The heroine. She should be screaming, laughing, something, but instead she felt almost guilty at her sense of anticipation.

Already, Mary Bellingham had given Jane a grace she’d never before known. Out of the carriage without falling flat on her face and taking James with her? Would never happen in real life. And right after that, Jane had said exactly the right thing, with manners and decorum. She’d opened her mouth and out the words came. As though she knew what she was doing.

It felt good. Strange, yes. Psychotic, probably, because who actually spent a life in the pages of a novel, waiting for someone to write what happened to them. But still, you had to award points for the sheer release of it all; the freedom of having another person set her on the right path and even help her walk it.

Jane crossed the floor to the door of her room, palms pressing against her silk skirts. Her legs had to be under there, though it might take a huge effort to find them. At least they were moving her from one spot to another.

She opened the door as quietly as she could and closed it behind her, stopping at Anne’s door to press her ear against the wood. If the teenager was awake, they could find cocoa to drink and talk over the day, the hero, whatever. Even giggle. For all of her years growing up, Jane had longed to do that. It wasn’t much fun having a brother who read textbooks practically from kindergarten, wore a tie in the first grade and never once got into any trouble. He was a rock, her brother, while Jane was the pebble that skipped along the water until it inevitably sank with a thud. And that was pretty much the problem.

Jane had raised her hand to knock when she heard the unmistakable sound of snoring coming from the other side. So much for cocoa and a late-night talk. Anne had checked out for the night.

Her hand fell back to her skirts and her gaze roamed up and down the hallway. Suddenly, more than anything, she felt a need to get outside, to breathe air that didn’t smell of candles, polished wood and heavy upholstery. To feel the cool air on her face and stare up at the sky.

She hoped there was an outside. A sky to stare at.

From somewhere beneath her skirts, her legs found the impetus to move and she retraced her earlier steps until she reached the stairs. She rushed down them, looking to the left, the right and straight ahead to make sure no one was around to see her fleeing the scene.

Fleeing. The scene. A sense of irony knocked at the edges of Jane’s consciousness until she brushed it away.

Halfway down, her foot slipped on the smooth surface of the stair and she half-fell, half-slid the rest of the way, with first one hand and then both clinging to the banister. Ow. That thing cinching her waist in didn’t exactly bend. At all. It was probably bulletproof, as well. Still she’d managed to land with the only casualty a ripped seam in the arm of her dress. Turned out the fabric wasn’t quite as flexible as her favorite tank top.

When at last she reached the door to the outside, she rushed through it, barely taking enough time to close it behind her, and inhaled the air in small gulps. The enormity of the situation began to sink in as she looked around her in the evening dusk, at the stately house, the dirt walkway and road, and the conspicuous absence of concrete, power poles or cell towers. All the normal trappings of life she’d taken for granted until now. No Internet. How did these people communicate?

With one fervent wish, she’d transported herself back in time, at least one hundred and fifty years or so. Where women were suppressed, treasured, stifled, revered. And in many ways, at the mercy of their…heroes.

One more wish, if anyone was listening. Mary Bellingam, if this was truly the adventure Jane was to have, please color outside the Victorian lines.

#

Jane walked, and then walked some more, until she found herself following her nose away from the house and into a large garden, fragrant with the scent of flowers in the dusky evening air.

Head down, she watched her skirts move of their own accord as she strolled the well-defined rows of the garden path, the leaves of low-hanging tree branches brushing against her hair. She reached up to touch one, rubbing it absently between her fingers. She could leave this place. Well, she was pretty sure she could, anyway. Forget that. She definitely could leave, whenever she wanted to.

All she had to do was break out the stone and make another wish. But what would she return to? A mess with her job, with her boyfriend, with her friend. All things she had to fix and she had no idea how.

Here, she didn’t have to think about any of that. Definitely a plus.

A solid, dark object materialized in front of her, causing her heart to leap straight into her throat. “Oh!” she screeched, slapping a hand across her mouth. Stepping back, she looked upward, to see that the object was a man. A tall, broad-shouldered man, outlined against the sky, with a hat pulled low over his eyes.

He removed it now, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm and a curt nod. “Madam.”

“You scared me.”

A long, silent moment passed before he answered, which only served to speed up her heartbeat. When he did answer, it was with a voice that rumbled so deeply, the tall green stalks on either side of Jane seemed to shrink. She had to will herself to hold her shoulders straight and not do the same. “My intent, I assure you,” he said, “was not to frighten.”

“Could have fooled me.” Her heart continued to pound. “So if you weren’t trying to scare the life out of me, what were you doing?”

“I simply sought to inquire what you might be doing in the garden at this hour.”

He could inquire all he wanted to. It was the explanation that might take a couple of hours. She took a shallow breath and exhaled, wishing she could get a better look at him. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Indeed you could,” he acknowledged. “And we could engage in clever banter until the night turned black, in want of an answer.”

Jane gave a small, choked laugh and peered up at him, able to make out strong features, including what looked to be amazing cheekbones, and a lot of very dark hair. “Then we agree that neither one of us has to account for why we’re here.” She kept her voice light.

He regarded her for another long moment before jamming his hat back on his head and saying, “It would seem to be so.”

“Good, because I would hate to feel as though I couldn’t take a walk in the garden without explaining myself.” As if she could explain anything happening around here, but there had to be some perks that came with being the heroine. Maybe one of them would be an “air of mystery.” Yes. She’d like to try being mysterious, for once. Usually, she was all too easy to figure out. Hope linked arms with anticipation to take a tentative step forward.

Now he smiled, exposing white, even teeth in the growing darkness. “Defending one’s actions does grow tiresome.”

Jane opened her mouth and then shut it again, not sure if he was talking about her, or him…or her. She could have used Mary Bellingham’s help, since the perfect comeback escaped her in the worst way. So much for mystery.

“Shall I accompany you to the house?” he asked. “It may be further than you realize.”

Not a bad idea. This storyline didn’t seem to come with any sort of roadmap of Victorian England and Jane’s internal GPS had been missing since birth. “Yes. That would be… If you want to.”

He fell into step with her, adjusting his longer stride. She wondered if he dominated a room as soon as he entered, causing all to look at him even though he hadn’t uttered a sound.

“Who are you?” she asked, squinting up at him.

“I am called Curran.”

“Curran,” she repeated, letting the name roll around her tongue. It had an edge to it that seemed to suit him. “Do you live around here?”

“I do.”

“I’m staying here. As a guest.”

“I am aware of that.”

“It looks like an incredible house, even though I haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet.” She gave herself a virtual pat on the back. Without even trying, she’d made herself sound like a normal guest in this very not-normal situation.

“But you went first to the gardens. A place that attracts those in need of solace.”

It would be helpful to have a rule book to follow. “It’s a logical place to go,” she said. “You were there.”

He didn’t reply to that. Instead, they fell silent, the only sounds their muffled steps on the path and her skirts swishing.

“You will see more of the estate as the days pass,” he said after a moment.

The idea of days passing sent a sharp pang of discomfort through her middle. She decided to switch the topic. “My name is Jane.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

Had there been a character-introduction party she hadn’t been invited to? “You seem to know me, but I don’t know anything about you.” They had reached the house and were passing through the light that spilled from a front window. Jane stopped, peering closer at the man, but the shadows crossed his face in a way that didn’t allow a good look.

He also stopped, looking down at her. “It can be such, I am given to believe, at the beginning of a tale. The author’s intentions shall no doubt become clearer as the story progresses.”

“I’m not the most patient person.” An understatement.

His mouth turned up. “Perhaps our author will discover that to be true. And use it to good advantage.”

“Would be the first time anyone has,” Jane sighed.

She could have sworn she heard the beginning of a chuckle from him, but if so, he checked it by clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. “As we have arrived, Miss Ellingson, I shall see you inside and then retire.”

At the door, she hesitated, then turned to him and stuck out her hand. “Thank you.”

In one smooth motion, he took her hand in his own, turning the palm down and bending to touch her glove with his lips.

A gesture that should never have disappeared from society, Jane reflected as a little thrill ran up her spine. If Byron had done that…even once… When Curran released her hand, she let it hover in the air for a few seconds before she pulled it back and took a few seconds to recover her breath. “Well,” she breathed. “Thanks…for that.” She bobbed what she hoped would pass for a curtsy, just because it seemed like the thing to do under the circumstances, and with another quick glance at him, she walked through the door. Wow. Now that was courtly. She’d felt his mouth, even through her glove.

He followed, closing the door behind him.

Jane whirled in surprise. “Aren’t you–?” She broke off the words. “You live here?”

Another bow, this time deep and prolonged. “Allow me to introduce myself. Curran Dempsey.”

“Dempsey.” She tipped her head. “So you’re related to James, somehow?”

“As fate would have it, James and I are brothers.” His hair shone in the candlelight, as black as James’s hair was blond. Thick, dark brows framed eyes such intense pools of darkness, they seemed capable of hiding anything their owner might choose.

“James. The hero,” Jane said, more to herself than to him. She had to keep all of the details straight.

“Not as long as I draw a breath,” said Curran Dempsey.

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