By Laurie Viera Rigler
The la occasions bestseller that has Austen fanatics hooked After nursing a damaged engagement with Jane Austen novels and Absolut, Courtney Stone wakes as much as locate herself no longer in her la bed room or maybe in her personal physique, yet contained in the bedchamber of a girl in Regency England. Who yet an Austen addict like herself may well concoct this kind of fable? not just is Courtney caught within one other woman's existence, she is pressured to fake she truly is that lady; and regardless of realizing not anything approximately her, she manages to idiot even the main astute observer. For her borrowed physique understands tips on how to communicate with no slaying the King's English, dance with no maiming her companion, and embroider as though possessed by means of genuine household ability. yet now not even Courtney's point of Austen mania has ready her for the chamber pots and filthy training hotels of nineteenth-century England, not to mention the realities of being a unmarried lady who needs to fend off suffocating chaperones, condom-less seducers, and marriages of comfort. input the enigmatic Mr. Edgeworth, a suitor who may perhaps prove to not be a well-known species of philanderer finally.
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Additional info for Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict
I open the window with shaking fingers and will myself not to hyperventilate. My breathing slows, and I feel the sun warm my face. I inhale the tang and sweetness of herbs and grass and flowers, hear the birds chirping in the vividly green trees. I pull up the sleeve of my nightgown, and there is the same healing cut on my arm from the doctor’s knife. All of these sensations are undeniably real. I’m here. In someone else’s body. In someone else’s life. And here, it appears, I will stay until—or if—I figure out how to get back.
After all, why get all bent out of shape over a dream? So what if it seems that I’m stuck in it for the time being; it’s bound to end eventually. Might as well take advantage of my lucidity and deconstruct it while still in it. Not that it would take a rocket scientist to do so. Aside from my addiction to all things Austen providing the setting, the mother figure’s narcissism is clearly a caricature of my own mother’s self-centeredness. Like Mrs. Mansfield, Mom is mostly interested in my life inasmuch as it affects her own.
Do you forgive me, miss, for sobbing all over you like that? ” “Don’t give it a second thought. ” “Oh, miss. You’re so kind, you are. ” She wipes a tear away. And with a curtsey, leaves me alone in this room. To think. And sleep. Which I do within seconds, the last fuzzy thought being that I trust this will be all over when I awake. Four B ut it’s not. I’m still here. Shit. It’s morning. Birds singing. The scent of roses wafting through my window. Mrs. Mansfield in my doorway. Like I said, Shit.