Prologue

Posted on Tuesday, 15 February 2005

Thump.

I hit the pavement, hard, rapping my skull against the solid concrete so roughly that my head spun.

Why was the world was out to get me?

During my twenty years on this earth, I've tried (generally) to be a good person. Sure, I drink too much. I've been known to speak before I think. I mouth off to my mother, my professors, my boss, and my roommate. I've been thrown out of so many nightclubs that I'm the only New York University student that has to go to Jersey to party. And, admittedly, during that one protest, I threw an egg at a riot cop before ducking behind a dumpster.

But, really, is that so bad, in the grand scheme of things? Did the egg-chucking incident put me on God's naughty list? Maybe there's a commandment that got lost in translation over the millennia -- "Thou shalt not chuck eggs at law enforcement."

I've paid my dues. I've got an alcoholic tendency, a subconscious that thinks recurring nightmares are really neat-o, and an eidetic brain to keep every mortifying moment crystallized in Techno-color for all eternity. Is that not good enough penance for The Powers That Be? Do I really have to trip, too?

Not that it mattered. My luck is my luck. And the cards I got dealt this morning read, "On the way to her Had-To-Be-At-Eight-AM Eighteenth Century British Writers Class, Valerie will lose her balance for no reason and wind up sprawled on 4th Street, to the witness of her fellow classmates and city dwellers.

"She will then either elect to face her humiliation, get up, and go on to class, or she will stay spread-eagled on 4th Street until she is trampled to death by above-mentioned classmates and dwellers."

Very specific, those cards.

As much fun as being trampled sounded at this point, I was really going to have to go to British Writers. I'd missed last week... and the week before that... and, well, the week before that. Who schedules class at eight AM? You can still taste the shooters from the night before at that hour.

But today, miraculously, I was not hungover. It was Jane Austen class today, and I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to pick apart Pride and Prejudice, after I had patiently waited through the never-ending Dickens unit. I had even re-read the book the night before, just for the hell of it. It was still exactly the same as my photographic memory had recorded it, but hell, why miss the opportunity to read a good novel?

However, lying with my cheek next to someone's discarded Wrigley's wrapper wasn't going to get me to class any faster. Sighing with disgust, I pulled myself into a sitting position (very slowly, because man, did my head ache), opened my eyes, and surveyed...

...very green grass. What's more, lots of very green grass. Fields of very green grass.

Since when did the NYU campus have grass? The NYU campus didn't have dirt. Smog residue doesn't count.

As I was puzzling over this mysterious increase in botanicals, a deep, male, English voice asked,

"Are you quite all right, Miss Bennet?"

Automatically, I replied, "Oh, don't worry about it. I'm a klutz. This one time, I..." I trailed off in astonishment.

Whatever has just emerged from my vocal cords was not my voice.

My voice was rough, alto, and extremely Brooklyn. The voice I had just heard was light, soft, and British.

And my name was not Miss Bennet.

A number of other startling realizations hit me like a garbage truck. I was lying not in the street, but in mud. Not only was there green grass, but there were trees and bushes and, off in the distance, what I strongly suspected to be a cow. A huge stone house rose up on a hill not a hundred yards in front of me. And a man -- quite a man, at that -- dressed ridiculously, was standing before me, offering me his hand with a look that faded from disgust to admiration and back again.

"Please allow me to help you to your feet, Miss Elizabeth. Miss Bennet remains ill, I fear, but I am certain she will be quite pleased to see you."

Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Chapter 1A

Posted on Friday, 18 February 2005

I took the guy's hand numbly and let him help me to my feet.

My first instinct was to start swearing -- but even in my haze, I knew that my benefactor was unlikely to be impressed with my in-depth knowledge of inter-species sexuality and circumstances of birth. I also knew how to be obscene in three different languages, but he probably wouldn't think much of that, either.

Once I'd regained my center of balance, I looked down at myself.

Oh, hell.

My entire front side was covered in mud, but that didn't bother me much -- I fall down a lot. The much more upsetting fact was that I was wearing a dress, of all things. If I hadn't known already that something was seriously wrong, this would have clued me in; the last time I wore a dress was Easter Sunday, 1988, when I beat the snot out of my cousin for making fun of my hair ribbons. Dresses aren't my thing.

Luckily (or not), it wasn't really me that was wearing the dress. That is, it wasn't my body. I may not be a whiz with comparative distances, but the ground was definitely farther away than usual -- I was at least four inches taller. And my chest... I'm not (nor have I ever been without aid of a WonderBra) a C-cup. But now...

I reached up to push a stray hair out of my face. A long, curly, brown stray hair. My hair is blond.

No, this was certainly not my body, and this was certainly not Manhattan. And judging from my dress's empire waist and the other guy's cravat, this wasn't the twenty-first century.

Wow. Wow, was this bad.

My hands were starting to shake. White, well-manicured hands, without bitten nails. Definitely not my hands.

I guess I was turning pale, because the guy in the cravat, who until now had been eyeing my muddied dress with distaste, looked suddenly alarmed. "Miss Bennet? Are you unwell?" he asked anxiously.

Miss Bennet. That is not my name. I swallowed past the acid taste in my throat. "I think... I should sit." Before I fall, I added silently. Falling would be bad. I fell before, and look what it got me. If I dropped and hit my head again, where would I end up next? The Millennium Falcon? Isenguard?

"Of course, of course." As the guy (who looked awfully familiar, but my muddled brain couldn't place him) glanced around for a good place to sit me down, I started to see stars. Okay, so now I'm going to faint.

My last conscious thoughts were I hope this will be more interesting than British Writers class. Then everything went dark.

That hope of mine will henceforth be referred to as "Mistake Number One."

When reality (er, such as it was) came back into focus, I expected to be in my dorm room, curled under the sheets, hiding from a hangover and my roommate. Sure, she was a good little girl who never smoked, drank, or partied, and more power to her -- but did I have to wake up to her lecturing me about my sins every morning?

However, when I opened my eyes, my roommate's upturned nose was not what I beheld.

I was in a bed the size of a small fishing boat. The sheets were white, bordered with some kind of intricate lace. The canopy (who had canopies on their beds, aside from spoiled five year old girls?) was also a lacy white cloth that bore a striking resemblance to mosquito netting. It made me think of my grandmother shopping at antique stores, and how she would make the salesperson cry just for the hell of it.

Dim light danced from a candle on a bedside table.

When I started trying to worm my way out from under the oppressive blankets, I noticed I was wearing a soft white nightgown with laced cuffs, rather than a muddy dress.

So... who the f*** had changed my clothes?

I stopped wriggling for a moment, took as deep a breath as I was capable of doing under the circumstances, and counted to ten. It certainly wouldn't do any good to have an anxiety attack. As I forced myself to relax, the pieces of my mind clicked back together, and it hit me.

Colin Firth. The man who had helped me up was Colin Firth, or his twin brother. Who could miss that face? Well, aside from me. But my photographic memory seemed to be back in tact now, after being shaken up for a few hours, and it was no trouble to attach a name to the features that had seemed to familiar.

But no, that was stupid. It wasn't really Colin Firth, was it? After all, he was dressed like he'd stepped off the set as Mr. Dar-

Oh.

Oh, no.

With renewed desperation born of panic (so much for avoiding that anxiety attack), I managed to force my way out from underneath the covers, scrambled madly out of the bed, and looked wildly for a mirror. In the corner, on a mahogany dresser. I ran to it, nearly tripping over my feet in my alarm.

I'd like to say, in my own defense, that I don't scare easily. I'm a New Yorker. But that bravery was fine for your run-of-the-mill violent crimes, not meshings and flowings of alternate paths of reality. It was official – I was freaked out.

And now I knew what had happened, even if I didn't know how.

I stared into the mirror in open-mouthed horror... and Jennifer Ehle's -- or rather, Elizabeth Bennet's -- reflection stared back.

Chapter 1B

Posted on Tuesday, 22 February 2005

I was in England.

In another century.

In someone else's body.

In a fictional story.

Wow. When I lose it, I really lose it, don't I?

Schizophrenic breakdown. Has to be, I thought, staring my-face-but-not-my-face in the mirror. The drinking had finally caused brain damage. You see the winos on the street, drinking out of bags and raving about aliens, but somehow, you never think it's going to happen to you. In the real world, I was probably lying on my side in Central Park, drooling and gibbering.

This was very, very bad.

The most depressing thing was that my high school Health teacher had been proven right. She had glared at me from the blackboard and declared that in ten years, I would probably be dead in a gutter from an overdose. I had always assumed she was full of it, but now, that she might be right... well, that stung.

Maybe it wasn't the alcohol, though. Something else could explain my newly distanced relationship with reality. I'd dropped some acid a year ago, my first and last experience with hard-core recreational drugs -- I'd seen all of the wall tacks on my bulletin board flying around the room and buzzing like bees. I hate bees. I'd felt no particularly adverse effects afterwards (the tacks had returned to their inanimate state), but maybe some kind of permanent damage had been done.

I eyed the hairpins sitting on the dresser with suspicion, daring them to even try flying.

Well, I did fall down on 4th Street. Maybe I could have hit my head when I fell. This could all be a dream.

But I'd never dreamed this, my photographic memory assured me. My dreams tend to be recurring -- if I couldn't remember this particular Edwardian set-up from a previous dream, then chances are, it wasn't a dream this time.

Of course, if I was in someone else's body, I might not have recurring dreams. Would I necessarily have the same physical problems? My photographic memory was still intact, but did that mean I still had anything else from my previous existence? With someone else's body, particularly a fictional someone else, could I even still be considered Valerie?

I think, therefore I am.

I may have paid very close attention in Psychology 101, but if I'd learned anything over years of bar discussion with philosophy majors, it's this: when you start questioning your own existence, it's time to relax and do a shot.

I think, therefore I am.

Well, a shot was out of the question, but taking deep breaths was helping.

At least I was still thinking clearly, so I was real. It was, at least, best to start with the presumption that I was real. Staying in an existentialist fog all day would accomplish nothing.

So, whatever brief psychotic episode had caused this mess, it must be over soon, and I could then go about explaining to the professor why I had missed British Writers class for the fourth week running. Until then... it would probably be best to just play along. Not rock the boat. Not think too hard about what the hell was going on.

After all, I could transcribe an entirely new edition of Pride and Prejudice from memory if I had to. Surely I could pretend to be Elizabeth Bennet for a little while?

Of course. Not a problem. I could handle this. Really.

I drew in a deep breath to steady myself...

...and a maid burst through the door without warning.

I screamed in shock. Good beginning. Way to play along.

The maid, an elderly, rotund woman in a starched white outfit, looked chagrined. "Oh Miss Bennet, I'm so very sorry, I didn't mean to startle you--"

"It's, uh, quite all right," I assured her, hoping my heart rate would slow down before I had a heart attack. Carefully, I asked, "What...is it that you inquire after?" Sure, I'd read plenty of books, but beyond that, I had little concept of the proper language usage in early nineteenth century England.

And it was going to take a long time for me to get used to someone else's voice coming out of my mouth.

"I apologize for interrupting, ma'am," she curtseyed. Curtseying was weird. "I've come to ask if you feel well enough to join Mr. Bingley for an after-supper game of cards, or perhaps reading."

"After supper?" I glanced out the window. Huh. The sky was dark. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven in the evening, ma'am."

"Oh." Damn, I'd been asleep all day, hadn't I? Lost in thought, I turned away and absent-mindedly played with the loose brown curls that were now mine, but not mine. Another thing that would take getting used to. "Who else will be at the card table, might I ask?"

"Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Mr. Darcy, ma'am." Misunderstanding my suddenly rigid frame, she hurriedly added, "Miss Bennet, I'm sorry, is not yet well enough to emerge from her room."

Miss Bennet... Jane. Yeah, okay. Jane was sick, and I... Elizabeth had come on foot to see her. Mr. Darcy had met her outside of Netherfield ("I've come to inquire after my sister." "On foot?" "As you see."), but she must have tripped... and then he had helped me up. How that had happened was anyone's guess.

Well, at least the universe I'd somehow contracted was following Jane Austen's course of events. I knew how to act. "I should like to attend the game, after seeing to my sister of course..." I trailed off, looking down at myself. "I'm afraid I, uh, don't have anything to wear. The dress I arrived in is... unsuitable." Unless the Bingley sisters suddenly approved of mud.

The maid smiled indulgently, the way all good natured older ladies smile at flustered kids. I wanted my mother. What if I was stuck here forever? What if I never saw my family and friends again?

"That's not a problem, ma'am. You can wear..." Oh God, please not one of Miss Bingley's dresses, I hate orange, "...your own clothes. Upon hearing of your arrival, Mr. Bingley insisted that you stay with your sister until she is well, and sent for your things from Longbourn."

Right. I was supposed to stay at Netherfield. At least that decision had been made, even if Elizabeth wasn't present to facilitate. "Yes, thank you." The maid took this as a cue to leave and fetch the clothes, but I wasn't finished. "Um..." I wanted to say 'ma'am', but somehow, I didn't think that a gentleman's daughter calling a maid 'ma'am' would be considered appropriate.

Luckily, she caught on to my discomfort. "The name is Ophelia, ma'am," she said, curtseying again. I didn't like being curtseyed to.

"Ah...precisely how did I get up here?" More importantly, who undressed me. I never particularly warmed to the concept of complete strangers seeing me naked. I'd gotten a real reputation as a prude at Marti Gras. Of course, whoever had changed my clothes here hadn't really seen me naked, so... I was starting to confuse myself.

"Mr. Darcy carried you, ma'am, and I helped you into bed." Oh great. Not only had I stumbled and fallen into a puddle of mud in front of him, not only had I fainted (how much would that support the concept of weak women?), but he had carried me. Probably got mud all over his clothes, too. His disgust was probably complete. What he must think of me now...

I blinked and shook my head. That was... weird. I didn't even know Mr. Darcy yet, much less lose sleep over what he thought of me. Of course, sometime during my stay here at this house, I knew he would be falling in love with me...er, Elizabeth.

Something deep inside, but instinctual, reared up against that concept. He would not fall in love with me, he doesn't like me, he turned me down for a dance partner, I'm only tolerable, it was amusing but he is the most insufferable man I've ever met...

"Are you all right, Miss Bennet?"

I was gripping the bedpost so tightly that my knuckles had gone white. "Yes, thank you. If you could fetch a suitable dress for me, I would be much obliged," I said faintly. The door closed behind me, and I knew Ophelia was gone. I sank onto the bed.

I was still Valerie, but a portion of something else was inside me, too. Not a consciousness, but something. A substantial enough something to invade my thoughts, perhaps my actions...

I think, therefore I am.