Page 19 of To Swoon and to Spar
Penvale lifted the volume and, without even glancing at the title, began to read. “?‘No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her’—”
“Ha!” Jane said triumphantly before he could read further. “I knew it—look how close you’re holding the book to your face.”
“This is just how Iread,” Penvale said defensively.
“You and old Mrs. Enys down in the village,” Jane said smugly. “Who isninety. Lower the book just so,” she added, holding her hand at a distance from her face that Penvale could not fathom being conducive to reading.
He did as instructed and could tell at a glance that there wasn’t the slightest chance he’d be able to make out the majority of the words on the page. Rather than admit this, he instead asked, “What book is this, anyway?”
“Northanger Abbey—by the author ofPride and Prejudice,which you so admire.” She paused, an expression approaching glee flitting across her face. Based on his acquaintance with her thus far, Penvale could not imagine anything good following such a look. “Why don’t you read it?”
“I wouldn’t want to take it away from you whilst you are immersed in it,” Penvale said hastily.
Jane wasn’t going to allow him to escape that easily. “Oh, I’ve already read it—it was one of the books I purchased in London and read on the trip back to Cornwall. I can give you this one and a couple of her others to choose between. There’s another one I acquired in town,Persuasion,that I’ve just finished, and it’smostromantic.”
“I don’t really—” he tried again, and again was interrupted.
“But how can you possibly know you dislike novels if you’ve never read one?” Her smile was smug, and she was meeting his eyes directly—something he hadn’t realized was so rare until he experienced the electric spark of her gaze locking with his.
“I’ve never been drawn and quartered, and yet I feel fairly confident I would not enjoy that experience,” he shot back.
“Imight enjoy witnessing it, though, if you continue insulting Miss Austen in such a way,” she said sweetly, and he grinned before he could stop himself. He saw a flicker of surprise on her face at the sight.
“Say I humor you and read one of Miss Austen’s books,” he said, leaning back in his armchair as he spoke, slanting a lazy sideways glance at her. “What will you do forme?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her expression guarded.
“If I read one of your bloody books and I don’t enjoy it—if I am proved correct after all—what will you forfeit?”
Jane colored slightly, and Penvale realized that her thoughts had taken a much more lascivious turn than his own. Interesting.
“I don’t think I need consider anything for this possibility,” she said after a moment, “because it isn’t going to happen.”
“You seem awfully certain.”
“That is because I have read a novel before, and therefore I know what you’ve been missing. However,” she added, raising a hand to forestall any protest on his part, “in the interest of fair play, let’s say that when we host your friends this spring, I shall smile angelically at your sister every moment we are in the same room.”
Penvale let out an incredulous laugh. “I should dearly love to see you attempt this. I’ll remember to ask her to be particularly vexing.”
“You assume this will ever come to pass,” she retorted, but she regarded him thoughtfully as she spoke. She was silent for a moment and then added, “You and your sister… you seem like… friends.”
“I suppose that’s what we’ve become, in some ways,” he said, considering. “She’s five years younger than I am, but the older she got, the smaller that gap seemed. She always knew exactly what she wanted out of life—to escape our aunt and uncle’s home—and she accomplished it as quickly as possible once she made her debut. She married her first husband when she was only eighteen. I suppose I rather… failed her.” He’d never given voice to this thought—one that had occasionally lingered at the back of his mind from time to time—had never considered sharing it with anyone. How odd that he should now share it with Jane, of all people.
“How old were you when she married, twenty-three?” Jane asked. “And, I gather, without much fortune of your own? I don’t see how there’s much you could have done to help her. She needed the protection of a rich husband, and she found one.”
“I suppose I always treated her as more of an equal—as someone who knew her own mind—than as a younger sister to protect. I don’t think she would have wanted it any other way, but I was so busy getting a seat at any table playing a high-stakes game of cards, I doubt I’d have noticed if she did.” He could hear the note of bitterness in his own voice—the scorn for the boy he’d been back then.
“It was years ago, I imagine,” she said.
“Nearly six,” he confirmed.
“Well, it hardly seems fair to hold the man you were six years ago to the standards of the man you are today. You’ve grown up. Your sister seems very happy in her second marriage, so it all turned out well.”
“I suppose,” Penvale said, a bit startled—he had not expected sucha response from a woman who spent at least half their time together glaring at him.
Their eyes were still locked, something she seemed to notice at the same moment, for she hastily averted her gaze and nodded at the book sitting on his lap.
“I’ll look forward to seeing how you get on with that, in any case.” Her voice was deliberately light, the moment for sharing confidences clearly over. She left him soon afterward, making an excuse about needing to consult with Mrs. Ash about something, leaving Penvale to his thoughts.
