Marilyn Brant - According to Jane

For Jeff, Joe and Andrew

~Incredibly Good Guys~

&

In memory of

Margaret Weigel (1921–2007) and Kim Hintz (1967–2004)

~Inspirations~ 

Since the road to publication is usually so arduous, meandering and fraught with unexpected twists, writers have ample time to compose (in their heads or on fettuccini-stained restaurant napkins) dissertation-length monologues befitting that of a Shakespearean lead character, during which they describe — in complex, paragraph-long sentences — how exceedingly indebted they are to everyone they’ve ever met, read a book by or chatted about “Motivation” with online (in their entire lives) for the help given in the writing, acquisition, printing and distribution of their debut novels.

I was so not going to be one of those people with the endless lists. Seriously. I was going to do a “brevity is the soul of wit” thing. Heartfelt, but short. Until I started to actually jot down the names of the family members, writing mentors, friends, publishing professionals, librarians and occasional random grocery-store shoppers who’ve helped me at turning-point moments on this journey and I realized what tremendous teamwork it took to pull this off.

I originally had nine and a half pages. This is the condensed version. So, anyone I may have inadvertently omitted in this draft, please email me and I’ll send you the longer edition. (Trust me. Your name is definitely on that one. As is the name of every resident in the entire state of Wisconsin.)

First, my infinite thanks to Jane Austen. No, I don’t really talk to her, so I’m not sure if she’s aware of my gratitude and lifelong admiration. Nevertheless, it’s overflowing.

I had the incredible good fortune to join the Chicago-North chapter of RWA, through which I met exceptional authors who also became some of my best friends. Erica O’Rourke, Simone Elkeles, Karen Dale Harris, Laura Moore, Lisa Laing and Jennifer Stevenson — thank you all for reading and critiquing the complete novel and for being so encouraging during every single step toward publication. Erika Danou-Hassan, Sara Daniel, Pamala Knight Duffy, Ruth Kaufman, Liz Evans, Martha Whitehead and all of my terrific C-N chapter mates — thanks to you, too, for your supportiveness and for sharing in the adventure.

On the National RWA level, I benefited greatly by being a part of the online PRO and PAN loops, by getting to know the Cherries, by being a “Bond Girl” and celebrating milestones with my fellow 007 Golden Heart Finalists and by lucking my way into a blog community full of talented writers, astute readers and enthusiastic Austen fans. I’m also grateful to the Romantic Times staff for all I learned as a reviewer, to JASNA for the fun of being surrounded by Janeites, and to the Z-Authors, the Sisters of the Pen and the Girlfriends Cyber Circuit for their guidance and for helping spread the word.

Professionally, I’ve been so fortunate to have Nephele Tempest as my agent. She believed in this story from the beginning, helped me polish it and worked hard to see it published. The Knight Agency’s amazing staff and clients have been behind me at every stage, and I truly appreciate their efforts. As for Kensington Books, I don’t think I could’ve dreamed up an editor more insightful, experienced or supportive than John Scognamiglio. He and the entire publishing team have been ceaseless in their work on this project, from copyediting and publicity to cover art and infinite behind-the-scenes details. Thanks to all of you — we did it!

Here at home, I’m unbelievably lucky to have Sarah Pressly-James, Joyce Twardock, Karen Karris and Pam Russell in my corner. Thanks for your friendship and for your many kindnesses. My dear friend Edna, you’ve shared your wisdom and your love of literature with me since I was nineteen — I send hugs of love and gratitude from here to Australia for you! My neighbors Jennifer and Heather, I appreciate not only your helpful feedback on my writing but your genuineness and humor. Josh and all our friends from the Y, thanks so much for answering my endless questions. Dorothy Enloe and Raymond Schoen — my writing mentors when I was young and impressionable — you may no longer be with us, but your messages from decades ago are still with me.

Hugs, kisses and colossal thanks to my wonderful family: Mom, for your unwavering encouragement; Dad, for those amazing cliffhanger story endings; Bro, for being the coolest brother imaginable and for helping me build the sound track to every book; Brad, Beth and Dave, for your excitement and interest; my grandparents and extended family for cheering me on (with extra-special thanks to Michelle and Stephanie for your enthusiastic emails); and Joanne, for being as caring as a relative. The love you’ve all given me through the years is such a gift. The downside? I’ve been forced to look elsewhere to find prototypes for my most antagonistic characters. (And I can’t thank you enough for that!)

Finally, my extraordinarily supportive, loving and generous husband and son — you two made it possible for me to pursue this dream, and you’re why I always say “Yes!” when people ask if I’m an optimist. I love you both — even more than ice cream, music, sunshine…. Thank you.

Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.

  — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813)

In a country neighbourhood you move in a

very confined and unvarying society.

  — Pride and Prejudice

I always thought Homer painted his character Odysseus as a real slow learner with that whole twenty-year-journey thing. I mean, what kind of an idiot needs two decades to understand a simple lesson like “Don’t be arrogant in the eyes of the gods”? Pretty basic, once you take out all the hard-to-pronounce Greek names, the weird epic-poem structure and everything that smacks of immortals playing with magic.

But who am I to talk? For so many years, I, too, thought I was clever. I, too, thought I was courageous. I, too, thought I’d figured out all my lessons but, as Jane would say, “I fear this is not so.”

See, until this moment, at my wise old age of thirty-four, I had a long-held theory about my own personal power. An erroneous belief that I had more control over my destiny than I actually have.

But, to prove my point, I can’t start explaining from where I am now. It wouldn’t make sense.

Journeys begin where journeys begin…and mine began with big hair, leg warmers and the musty smell of Mrs. Leverson’s English class, way back in the mid-1980s when I was all of fifteen.

I was in sophomore lit then — midweek, early November, daydreaming of life after high school — when Sam Blaine made his first move and Jane Austen made her first comment.

“Ellieeee,” the sinfully cute but annoying-as-hell Sam Blaine chanted softly from his seat behind me. “Ellllieee.” He walked two of his fingers up the imaginary ladder between my shoulder blades until I shivered.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

I scooched forward, trying to focus on Mrs. Leverson’s nasal-toned wrap-up lecture of the novel we’d just finished, Childhood’s End. Although I was pretty sure my childhood had long ended, I resigned myself to acting polite and studious in class if it killed me. I had a reputation to uphold.

Sam, however, had no intention of allowing me to brush him off. Managing to keep his hand out of Mrs. Leverson’s line of vision, he snagged my shirt and bra strap with a pinch grip and pulled me back toward him.

“C’mon, Ellie. You know you’re as bored as I am.” Sam skimmed his fingertips over the spot where my bra’s back clasp bulged beneath the cotton fabric. “Tell me your fantasy.”

As our teacher gestured with her chubby arms up in front of our suburban Chicago classroom and performed other antics to entice student participation, I thought of my fantasy: Surviving adolescence. Maybe kissing Sam someday. Being a totally cool, in control, woman of the world.

Yeah, right. But I was an optimist in the ’80s.

I did not, however, divulge these imaginings to the precocious dark-haired boy who, thanks to the eternal delights of alphabetical order, sat near me in five out of seven classes.

No.

I might lust after Sam. A lot. But I hadn’t yet become self-destructive. I knew S-A-M was shorthand for D-A-N-G-E-R.

“In your fantasy, are you groping a guy in the dark, passionately, maybe under the bleachers?” Sam suggested, his voice low. His fingers massaged my spine, channeling toward me all the vigor of a testosterone-driven teen male.

I felt chills — equal parts anxiety and longing — at his touch. I tried to lean away from him again, but he drew me back with one swift motion.

“And are you feeling that guy’s hands rubbing your body, too? First, over your clothes, and then” — he paused to stroke his thumb down my bare neck — “underneath them?”

“Cut it out, Sam,” I whispered over my shoulder, finally breaking away despite my absurd desire for more. Since kindergarten he’d poked me in the back with his pencil tip and badgered me with pesky comments, but this was the first time he’d ever really touched my skin. I didn’t know what to make of it.

See, with anyone else I might’ve thought some tiny crush thing was going on, but I wasn’t dealing with a typical, gawky sixteen-year-old boy. This was Sam Blaine, a guy who exuded experience even then. A guy who’d morphed into a rare combination of good-looking, athletic, brainy and popular. Versus me, who was, well…just brainy. Or, at least, intelligent enough to know I wouldn’t rate high on Mr. Cool’s “To Date” list.