Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Read Online Free PDF Page A

she does fill out the white bodice rather well, and the waistband of the trousers rests against the form in a way that shows off the smallness of her waist in comparison to the roundness of her hips. I can only imagine what my mother would say if she saw me in a pair of trousers. The O her little mouth would make at the scandal of it, followed by the cold blue glare of her eyes and an imperious “You will change clothes at once,” the same tone she took when I dared to wear my yellow gown when Edgeworth was once expected for dinner, instead of the pale blue she had chosen.
    The woman in the mirror is smiling.
    A drip-drip sound captures my attention—under the mirror there is a curved, glossy metal pipe from which water steadily drips. I fumble around the curved surfaces of the pipe, which protrudes from a thicker pipe, atop which is—a pump-handle? Could it be possible that this meager dwelling has piped water? Sure enough, it yields to my touch, and a trickle, then a powerful stream, of water issues from the curved pipe. And neither a creak nor a shudder, neither a dead insect nor a hint of sulfurous stench nor a brown tinge. Just clear, cold—and dear heaven, when I move the handle to the left, the water is warm, then hot! How can such a miracle exist? I move the handle until the water is the perfect temperature and hold my hands under the luxurious stream, splashing water on my face. I glance up at the mirror, and the face looking back at me reflects delight in the refreshing sensation of the water. I’ll wager there isn’t a house in London that has such clear water pouring out of its pipes. And none of them has hot water unless it is heated under a fire.
    If only there were soap. Ah, yes. A clear bottle which looks to be glass but has not the heft of glass, and which gives under the pressure of my fingers, has a label which proclaims it “geranium liquid soap.” The pumplike top produces a thin stream of pearly liquid, which foams easily in my wet hands, and I use the sweet-smelling mixture on my face. Heaven indeed to be clean and smell lovely.
    A quick rap at the door—“It’s me,” says a female voice, and in walks Paula. I see there is little respect for closed doors in this house.
    “Thought I might as well in case we hit traffic,” she says, and lifts the lid of a white cylindrical object, which reveals a white, horseshoeshaped thing atop a bowl of water. She hitches up her tiny skirt, pulls down a light blue undergarment like the one I am wearing, sits upon the horseshoe, and relieves herself. I am about to protest her vulgar behavior, but I am so fascinated by what she does next that I can only stare with as little manners as she possesses. She grabs some soft-looking, thin white paper from a roll which is fastened to the wall and uses it to clean herself, readjusts her clothing, and depresses a lever on the bowl which flushes everything away with a mighty gush of water.
    “Almost forgot,” she says, opening a cupboard and removing a blue box. “I’d better steal one of these.” She holds up a thin white cylindrical object with a paper wrapper. “I’m going to start bleeding any moment. I can feel it.” And down comes the undergarment again, up goes the skirt, and ripping off the paper wrapping, she actually pushes the white tube inside her body!
    “Are you okay?” she says, her brow creased with worry. “Stupid question. Of course you’re not okay. But you’re done, right? Can we go?”
    “I, well—if you would be so kind—” I indicate the porcelain bowl. “I will just be a moment.”
    “Hurry up, then,” she says, and, thankfully, leaves me to try out the device myself. It is a thousand times more impressive than the flushing water closet in Miss Allens’s London town house, and far more comfortable, too. Miss Allens’s barely has an edge to perch upon, let alone a bona fide seat. And this soft, delicate paper is far more agreeable than waste paper.
    They are all staring at