Part I: In which we meet Mallory, tragedy strikes, and Eliza Bennet comes out of the closet...literally.

Posted on 2009-05-09

October 11th, 20__

Today was boring. It wasn't rainy, it wasn't sunny, and the level of air pollutants was completely average.

To compound the dreariness, our Jane Austen unit study is over. I think I shall die. Went out and bought her complete works in hardcover for consolation. Won't be able to afford Christmas shopping now, but that hardly matters.

There's going to be a Halloween dance at school. Probably no quadrilles, but one can always hope. Must try hard to find a date.

Grammy is going in for her surgery tomorrow. Mom is worried.

October 12th, 20__

I wish today had been boring. First, was late for school because of an embarrassing oatmeal accident at breakfast. Pride and Prejudice is too funny to be read safely while eating.

Then, Ms. Spencer announced our new English project: Charles Dickens. I really, really think I shall die. Accidentally stated this sentiment out loud, incurring wrath of Ms. Spencer and laughter of class. Finding a date for the Halloween dance will not be easy.

To make matters worse, I got into an argument with Melissa on the way home from school. She claims I care more about fictional people who lived on a different continent two hundred years ago than I do about my friends. This is completely untrue, of course. I care deeply and earnestly about modern-day occurrences; however, my friends have to understand that I also care about--well, about fictional people who lived on a different continent two hundred years ago. She didn't get it.

~Later
This day is getting worse and worse. Grammy's surgery did not go well at all. They don't know if she's going to make it. Mom and Dad want to fly to Cleveland and help out.

"Of course you should go," I told them. "I'm sixteen. I can take care of myself for a few weeks."

"Oh, but Honey…" Mom said. "We can't just run off and leave you. Who knows when we'll be back? Grammy could take days or months to recover."

"Well, it's not really indefinite, Nell," Dad put in. "I have a job."

"Go for as long as you need to. If Grammy's still sick when Dad's leave runs out, he can come back and earn us some money while you stay with her," I said to Mom.

She sighed. Since I'm an only child, my parents have always been protective of me. They never left me with relatives when I was small, and I've always tagged along on weekend getaways. But I think I'm perfectly capable of surviving in a well-stocked apartment for a week or two.

They still seemed doubtful, so I hugged them and said reassuringly, "Don't worry about me. I can blunder through the day and piece myself back together with Jane Austen before bed. Just help Grammy."

I helped them pack a suitcase and made their flight reservations online while Mom called Aunt Pea. Not surprisingly, that old buzzard is too busy with her precious career to visit her dying mother. Geesh.

October 13th, 20__

Mom and Dad left early today. They flew out of La Guardia before I even got up.

Despite the fact that I fix my own breakfast every morning, their absence made me unusually inattentive. I forgot how to operate the toaster, lost the spatula, and searched the fridge for orange juice before remembering I used the last of it yesterday. Must remember to buy more.

Tried hard, but still no date for the dance. Acted very friendly and dropped pointed remarks about dancing and Halloween. Perhaps I should wear something more low-cut.

Unfortunately, Melissa still won't talk to me. Whenever I tried to start a conversation, she told me not to bother extricating myself from Regency Britain. Perhaps I have been a little…absentminded these days, but surely I don't deserve that.

Dinner was less successful than breakfast. Flames were involved, and the neighbors became alarmed when the smoke detector went off. Had to stand on the counter and disable the dratted thing with a pencil.

Mom and Dad called before bed.

"Mallory! It's so good to hear your voice," cried Mom a bit tearily.

"Good to hear yours, too," I replied, "but it hasn't been so long as all that."

"Well, it seems like an age, a positive age," she said rather dramatically. "Grammy is a little better, but she's still in intensive care. It's touch or go right now."

We didn't talk long, since she had to go check in with the nurse's station. She sounded tired.

October 14th, 20__

Not much happened today. Got up, went to school, came home. End of story.

~Later
Things have changed a little since I wrote the above. Though I suppose it's actually the 15th now, the past hour has been one of the strangest of my life.

I went to bed at around ten, after a liberal dose of Emma and a sprinkling of P&P. I slept soundly until three or so, when I awakened suddenly and completely. I lay motionless in the dark for a moment, wondering what had disturbed my peaceful slumber. I was about to roll over and return to my dreams (I'd been having an interesting one about strolling with various Austen characters by a brook in Central Park. Lizzy fell in and drowned, and Mr. Darcy blamed me for the accident. Became rather unpleasant.) when I heard a small sound emanating from the closet.

I sat up very, very slowly, listening. It sounded as though something was tapping lightly on the closet door, testing to see if anyone would answer. The noises ceased for a moment, and, just as I was beginning to hope it had all been my imagination, a sharp click sounded from across the room. It was followed by a little metallic rattle, a footstep, and an eerie squeaking of hinges. My closet door does not usually squeak.

I was becoming seriously uneasy. Moving silently, I slid my hand over the edge of the bed and groped around underneath for my BB gun. I heard a footstep on the shag carpet.

My fingers found the smooth barrel, and, holding my breath, I noiselessly pulled it out from beneath a hula-hoop and some overdue math homework. Undoing the safety with my left hand, I groped for the light switch with my right. Another footstep.

I steeled my nerves and sat motionless for a second, drenched in adrenaline and waiting for the intruder to make the next move. I heard a little intake of breath and a soft exclamation of "Gracious, what is this odd material?"

That was all I needed. I simultaneously cocked my BB gun, flicked on the light switch, and shouted, "Stop right there! I'm armed!"

The glaring overhead light revealed a peculiar scene. Near the open closet door was a dark-haired young woman, frozen in the action of stooping down to stroke the carpeting. She was wearing some sort of strange, fan-shaped headgear that concealed her face from my vantage point on the bed, and her dress, though equally unusual, was not completely out of style; after all, empire waists are in.

Slowly, gradually, she turned her head to look at me. She had a pleasant face, thin and rosy, with close-set green eyes and a rather pointed nose. Her plump lips were parted in an expression of absolute astonishment. No wonder; the young woman's view must have been just as surprising as mine. Not every day is one confronted by a scared-looking teenager in Easter Bunny pajamas, wielding a BB gun and shouting a death threat.

We remained in this position for what seemed like long, long time; in reality, half a minute may have passed. It was an awkward moment.

She spoke first. "Forgive me! I was not aware--that is, I did not realize--this cottage--I did not know it was occupied. I will take my leave before I intrude further." She stood up and backed toward the closet.

I leveled my gun at her. "Not so fast! You have more explaining to do than that. What were you doing in my closet?"

"Your closet?" stammered the young woman. "Hesitant as I am to dispute with one who holds me at gunpoint, I must beg to present a different opinion on this matter. I can state with every attribute of truthfulness that I entered your chambers through no closet."

"No closet, huh? Then how'd you get in here, the window? The front door is locked, deadbolted, chained, and rigged with an alarm that barks like a dog. You obviously came up the fire escape and climbed in through the window somehow." My pulse was returning to something like normal, and I was beginning to feel more angry than scared. I was puzzled, too. Though I had little experience with cat burglars, this person didn't fit my notion of what a brazen criminal should look like.

"Excuse my lack of understanding, but I begin to doubt the soundness of your deductions!" she replied a bit heatedly. "I am no common housebreaker that I should enter a dwelling uninvited through the window! Your cottage showed no evidence of inhabitation, and my curiosity would be repressed no longer as to its interior aspect. The door was not barred. I knocked beforehand to acquaint any residents with my presence. Really, madam, you ought to secure your dwelling against casual entry if you wish to avoid unexpected visitors!"

I gawked. "Cottage?"

"Most certainly. The old cottage beside the road to Meryton. I pass it every day on my morning walk. I must express my surprise at your presence here, as all the neighborhood believed this place deserted. Indeed, I wonder that Sir William Lucas should be uninformed of your tenancy, since the cottage is undoubtedly within his holdings." She gave me a stern look.

I stared, colored, doubted, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Ah. So this is still a dream. Good grief, you had me worried there for a second. I'm going to wake up now." After waiting expectantly for a moment, I pinched myself several times and muttered "Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!"

Still unsuccessful, I put down my BB gun, turned off the light, and lay back against my pillow. I had a confused notion that if I fell asleep again, I would wake up.

The figment of my dream exclaimed angrily out of the darkness. "Madam, this really is most extraordinary! I shall depart at once, for this insistence of my unreality shows how distasteful you find my explanations. Good day!"

She made a huffy noise of disgust and her footsteps receded toward the closet door. It swung open smoothly, marked only by a soft swwwwt as it grazed the shag carpet. She slammed the door behind her.

Immediately, a muffled cry followed by several thuds and some wild thrashing radiated from my closet. With a mild obscenity, I flicked on the light, leapt out of bed, rushed across the room, and flung open the closet door.

My visitor was tangled in several sweaters and a pair of overalls. "This is most extraordinary!" she repeated. "I fear I must encroach upon your hospitality somewhat longer, for the front door seems to have absented itself and been replaced by this armoire. I am quite certain it is the door through which I entered…most extraordinary, indeed…"

"Get out of there," I said gruffly. "You're standing on my shoes. But, since this is a dream, I guess it doesn't really matter…anyway, I'm going back to bed."

I turned on my heel and marched back toward my well-deserved repose. Just before crawling under the covers, I glanced over my shoulder and saw her standing forlornly outside the closet. Her bonnet--for it could be called only that--was askew, and she was missing a glove. I felt a stab of pity.

"Oh, all right. Even if you are just a dream…you might as well go and bed down in my parents' room. First door on the left. Go on, now! Scoot!"

Looking rather grateful, she hurried out of the room. As I write, small sounds can be heard from the adjoining chamber. I hope she doesn't break anything; seems a clumsy sort of girl. But what am I thinking? Even if she breaks something in my dream, it'll be fine in the morning…come to think of it, I suppose none of this journal entry is for real either. Better stop now and get some sleep. Or wake up. Or whatever.

October 15th, 20__

My first thought after waking was of my odd dream. So strange! I mused. Most vivid dream I've ever had. Suddenly, my eye fell upon the BB gun discarded by the nightstand. It gets stranger and stranger. Was I doing some sleepwalking?

Just as suddenly, I caught a glimpse of the digital clock and sat bolt upright. The dreams had evidently troubled my sleep; it was already a half-hour past time to wake. I flew out of bed and grabbed a polo and jeans, dressing in desperate haste. A minute later, I was into the kitchen and flinging open the fridge. Still no orange juice. It evidently wasn't going to materialize of its own accord.

"Good morning. I hope you slept tolerably well after my intrusion."

I froze, one hand clamped onto a bag of sliced bread. Yes, I was awake. I was absolutely, 100% certainly awake.

Taking a deep breath, I spun around to face the room. The young woman from my dream was seated at the table with hands folded demurely in lap. Her bonnet was gone and her dark brown hair somewhat tousled, but she was undoubtedly the same person. I had failed to notice her in my mad rush for breakfast.

"Good grief. You're still here?" I gasped. She looked slightly offended.

"You forget, madam, that there is no reasonable way for me to absent myself from your residence. The door through which I entered has vanished, and the front door opens upon a long hallway with no apparent connection to the outdoors. I must admit my astonishment; this cottage does not seem nearly so spacious when viewed from the Meryton road."

"The…Meryton…road…" I repeated dumbly. Surely I was hallucinating. "What's your name--er, madam?"

She stood up and made a polite curtsy. "Elizabeth Bennet. Under happier circumstances, I would be most pleased to make your acquaintance."

I dropped the loaf of bread on my toe and sat down heavily. Though a suspicion had been growing on me for the past few minutes, this revelation was nonetheless a shattering blow. There seemed to be only two possible explanations: either I had completely, totally lost my mind, or Elizabeth Bennet was standing in my kitchen.

My seat upon the floor and expression of absolute shock alarmed my visitor. She hurried over to the refrigerator and helped me to my feet.

"I am most sorry! I did not intend to distress you, Miss…"

"Baldwin," I replied breathlessly. "Mallory Baldwin. Don't worry, it's not your fault. You just…reminded me of…someone I know."

Was this insanity? If so, it was a very tidy, well-ordered madness. I could clearly see the glass of water she had been sipping at the kitchen table, and there was her bonnet, discarded on a heap of magazines. The delicate hands that helped me rise felt very real, as did the cold loaf of bread lying at my feet. But neither could it possibly be reality. Elizabeth Bennet had lived two hundred years ago, more than three thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean--or, more precisely, hadn't lived two hundred years ago. After all, she was a work of fiction.

Or perhaps not. Elizabeth Bennet couldn't be such an uncommon name.

"Forgive me for prying, but how many sisters do you have, Miss Bennet?"

She looked surprised, but answered readily enough. "Four. I'm the second oldest."

I put on a brave show of serenity. "And their names?"

"Jane, Mary, Catharine--we call her Kitty--and Lydia. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just thought for a moment I'd met you before. You live in…Hertfordshire?"

"Yes, of course," Miss Bennet replied. "As do you."

"Unbelievable," I murmured faintly. Whoever this young woman was, she really seemed to believe herself Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.

I needed some time to think this over and devise a plan. However, Miss Bennet was glancing pointedly at the bread melting on my feet. I bent to pick it up.

"Ah, forgive me, Miss Bennet! I have been--er--remiss in my hospitality. Would you like some breakfast?"

She breathed a tiny sigh of relief. "Thank you kindly, Miss Baldwin. I must admit I would like a bit of breakfast exceedingly. Not intending any unkind censure, but your dining schedule seems rather different than that of my family. I set out on my morning walk just before breakfast, and yet you are only dining now, several hours later! Do you not find it…unnatural, Miss Baldwin, to sleep during the daylight hours?"

This was getting stranger and stranger by the minute. She had obviously detected a time-zone difference between New York and…wherever she had come from.

"Actually, I don't. But what would you like to eat? Eggs? Oatmeal?"

With an incredulous look, she replied, "Oatmeal, Miss Baldwin? I am not particularly accustomed to partaking of horse fodder."

Oops. "Porridge! That's what I meant, of course. So, eggs, porridge…there's always toast." I waved the soggy loaf apologetically in the air. "I'm sure it's still all right. You don't mind sourdough, do you?"

"No…no, I do not. Toast will be quite fine, thank you."

Breathing a sigh of relief (my omelets tend to end in flames), I hurried over to the countertop and selected four pieces of toast from their plastic bag. Two for me, two for her. I popped them into the toaster.

"What a brilliant notion, Miss Baldwin, slicing your bread beforehand! You can select a piece conveniently, at any time, without resorting to the bread knife. I shall tell Hill the moment I get home."

"Oh, don't!" I exclaimed, a little too loudly. "I mean--I'm sure the old way is really just as good. No need to hurry into new things too quickly." I would never forgive myself if I introduced sliced bread to Regency England.

"As you wish, but it seems too fine an idea to keep to yourself. Forgive my constant babble, Miss Baldwin, but what is that intriguing little device you placed the toast in?"

I decided the truth would probably be easiest. "It's a toaster. You put the bread in, press down the handle, and voila! It's toasted."

"Marvelous," Miss Bennet breathed, approaching slowly from across the kitchen. "And what fire heats this…toaster?"

I thought fast. "Electrical fire! It's the newest thing. You just plug this little cord into the wall, and electrical fire is--um--piped into the toaster. It's very convenient."

"Marvelous," she repeated. "Truly, Miss Baldwin, your home is an emporium of wonders! Most everything I have noticed here is strange to me. Do all these…items--" she gestured vaguely around the kitchen, "--have equally practical uses?"

"Pretty much," I conceded, "though I can't vouch for the trash compactor. More trouble than it's worth."

The toast popped up, causing Miss Bennet to jump in surprise. "Butter or jelly?" I asked.

"Butter, thank you," she replied faintly, "if it is expedient."

"Very." I opened the fridge and removed a stick of butter wrapped in wax paper. Miss Bennet gaped.

"You keep your butter in the cupboard? Does it not melt?"

"This is a sort of…upstairs cold-cellar," I explained. "The electrical fire cools it down."

She gave me a peculiar look, as though she doubted my reasoning abilities. "The fire…cools it down? I believe there is something lacking in your logic."

"I don't really understand it either," I confessed. "But it works."

A few minutes later, we were sitting around the kitchen table, munching our toast in awkward silence. I was thinking hard and fast. Who was this person? It seemed impossible that she could actually be Elizabeth Bennet. But either she was an extraordinarily good actress, or she was actually from Regency England. She seemed to have no knowledge whatsoever of modern life.

This thought led naturally to a more alarming one: what was I going to do with her? How could I get her back where she came from if I didn't even know where that was? This was going to take some serious effort. But I had a more immediate concern, as well. What was I going to do with her today? I had school. In fact, I was late already. Yet I couldn't just leave her here. She might accidentally start a fire with the stovetop, or wander into the hallways and get mugged.

I gobbled my toast hurriedly, then excused myself. "Don't touch anything," I admonished.

"I hope you don't mind," she gestured to her glass, "but I helped myself to some water before you rose. I am quite entranced by your pump."

"My pump."

"Yes! It is most remarkable. It can hardly even be called a pump, since no pumping is actually necessary to obtain water! You must explain it to me."

"Maybe later. Not now. Good morning." I made an unsuccessful attempt at a curtsy, which she stood and returned more gracefully.

I hurried to my room and wrote everything down as quickly as I could. My grammar is probably poor from haste, but I never want to forget the events of this morning.

But I still have a serious problem. For a minute, let's just assume she really is Eliza Bennet. I have no idea what point in the story she comes from. Obviously, she still lives at home. But has Mr. Bingley come into the neighborhood yet? Has she met Mr. Darcy? What about Wickham? And what's going to happen to the world's greatest love story if the heroine is missing?

More later. Must go and think of an excuse to skip school.