Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan

Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan

by Robin Maxwell

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Cambridge, England, 1905. Jane Porter is hardly a typical woman of her time. The only female student in Cambridge University's medical program, she is far more comfortable in a lab coat dissecting corpses than she is in a corset and gown sipping afternoon tea. A budding paleoanthropologist, Jane dreams of traveling the globe in search of fossils that will prove the evolutionary theories of her scientific hero, Charles Darwin.

When dashing American explorer Ral Conrath invites Jane and her father to join an expedition deep into West Africa, she can hardly believe her luck. Africa is every bit as exotic and fascinating as she has always imagined, but Jane quickly learns that the lush jungle is full of secrets—and so is Ral Conrath. When danger strikes, Jane finds her hero, the key to humanity's past, and an all-consuming love in one extraordinary man: Tarzan of the Apes.

Jane is the first version of the Tarzan story written by a woman and authorized by the Edgar Rice Burroughs estate. Its publication marks the centennial of the original Tarzan of the Apes.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466803213
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date: 09/18/2012
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 357,525
File size: 4 MB

About the Author

ROBIN MAXWELL is the national bestselling author of eight historical fiction novels featuring powerful women, including Signora da Vinci and the award-winning Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn, now in its twenty-fourth printing. She lives in the high desert of California with her husband, yogi Max Thomas.

ROBIN MAXWELL is the national bestselling author of eight historical fiction novels featuring powerful women, including Signora da Vinci and the award-winning Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn, now in its twenty-fourth printing. She lives in the high desert of California with her husband, yogi Max Thomas.

Read an Excerpt


The Woman Who Loved Tarzan

By Robin Maxwell

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2012 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-0321-3


Chicago Public Library, April 1912

Good Lord, she was magnificent! Edgar thought. Infuriatingly bold. He had many times fantasized about women such as this Jane Porter, but he honestly believed they existed only in his imagination. The vicious heckling she had endured for the past hour in the darkened room would have broken the strongest of men, yet there she stood at the podium casting a shadow on the startling image projected by the whirring episcope on the screen behind her, back straight as a rod, head high, trying to bring order back into the hall.

Her age was indeterminate — somewhere approaching thirty, but her presence was one of striking vitality and self-assurance. She was tall and slender beneath the knee-length suit coat of fine brown wool. Her honey-colored hair was tucked up beneath a simple toque of black felt, not one of those large frivolous feathered creations that these days hung perilously cantilevered over a woman's face. Emma wished desperately for one of those freakish hats, and Edgar was secretly glad they were still too poor to afford it.

"These claims are preposterous!" cried a man seated halfway back in the crowded room. He had the look of an academic, Edgar thought.

"These are not claims, sir. They are the facts as I know them, and physical evidence, here, right before your eyes." There were hoots of derision at that, and catcalls, and Jane Porter's chin jutted an inch higher.

"This is clearly a hoax," announced a portly bearded man who brazenly walked to the table in front of the podium and swept his hand above the massive skeleton displayed on it. "And a bad hoax at that. Why, you haven't even tried to make the bones look old."

The audience erupted in laughter, but the woman spoke over the commotion in a cultured British accent with more equanimity than Edgar thought humanly possible.

"That is because they are not old. I thought I made it clear that the bones came from a recently dead specimen."

"From a living missing link species," called out another skeptic. The words as they were spoken were meant to sound ridiculous.

"All you've made clear to us today, Miss Porter, is that you should be locked up!"

"Can we have the next image, please?" the woman called to the episcope operator.

"I've had enough of this claptrap," muttered the man sitting just in front of Edgar. He took the arm of his female companion, who herself was shaking her head indignantly, and they rose from their seats, pushing down the row to the side aisle.

This first defection was all it took for others to follow suit. Within moments a mass exodus was under way, a loud and boisterous one with rude epithets shouted out as hundreds of backs were turned on the stoic presenter.

Edgar remained seated. When someone threw on the electric lights, he could see that the episcope operator up front in the center aisle was wordlessly packing up the mechanism of prisms, mirrors, and lenses that threw opaque images onto the screen as the speaker began her own packing up.

Finally Edgar stood and moved down the side aisle to the front of the meeting hall. He rolled the brim of his hat around in his hands as he approached Jane Porter. Now he could see how pretty she was. Not flamboyantly so, but lovely, with an arrangement of features — some perfect, like her green almond eyes and plump upward-bowed lips, and some less so, like her nose, just a tad too long and with a small bump in it — that made her unique.

She was handling the bones as if they were made of Venetian glass, taking up the skull, shoulders, arms, and spine and laying them carefully into a perfectly molded satin receptacle in a long leather case.

She looked up once and gave him a friendly, close-lipped smile, but when he did not speak she went back wordlessly to her task. Now it was the lower extremities that she tucked lovingly away, using special care to push the strange big-toe digits into narrow depressions perpendicular to the feet.

Edgar felt unaccountably shy. "Can I give you a hand?"

"No, thank you. They all fit just so, and I've had quite a lot of practice. London, Paris, Moscow, Berlin."

"I have to tell you that I was completely enthralled by your presentation."

She looked at Edgar with surprised amusement. "You don't think I should be locked up?"

"No, quite the contrary."

"Then you cannot possibly be a scientist."

"No, no, I'm a writer." He found himself sticking out his hand to her as though she were a man. "The name's Ed Burroughs."

She took it and gave him a firm shake. He noticed that her fingernails were pink and clean but altogether unmanicured, bearing no colorful Cutex "nail polish," the newest rage that Emma and all her friends had taken to wearing. These were not the hands of a lady, but there was something unmistakably ladylike about her.

"What do you write, Mr. Burroughs?"

He felt himself blushing a bit as he pulled the rolled-up magazine from his jacket pocket. He spread it out on the table for her to see. "My literary debut of two months ago," he said, unsure if he was proud or mortified.

"All-Story magazine?"

"Pulp fiction." He flipped through the pages. "This is the first installment in the series I wrote. There was a second in March. My pen name's Norman Bean. It's called 'Under the Moons of Mars.' About a Confederate gentleman, John Carter, who falls asleep in an Arizona cave and wakes up on Mars. There he finds four-armed green warriors who've kidnapped 'the Princess of Helium,' Dejah Thoris. He rescues her, of course."

She studied the simple illustration the publisher had had drawn for the story, something that'd pleased Edgar very much.

"It really is fiction," she observed.

"Fiction, fantasy ..." He sensed that the woman took him seriously, and he felt suddenly at ease. It was as if he had always known her, or should have known her. She exuded something raw and yet something exceedingly elegant.

"When I was ten I came home from school one day and told my father I'd seen a cow up a tree," Edgar said, startling himself with his candor with a complete stranger. "I think I said it was a purple cow. I was punished quite severely for lying, but nothing stops a compulsion, does it?" When she shook her head knowingly, he felt encouraged. "A few years later I moved to my brother's ranch in Idaho and stayed for the summer. By the time I was enrolled at Phillips Academy I could spin a pretty good yarn about all the range wars I'd fought in, the horse thieves, murderers, and bad men that I'd had run-ins with. It was a good thing my father never heard about them."

A slow smile spread across Jane Porter's features. "Well, you've shown him now, haven't you. A published author."

"I'm afraid my old man has yet to be convinced of my myriad talents."

She snapped both cases closed and took one in each hand.

"Here, let me help you with those."

"No, thank you. Having the two of them balances me out."

"I was hoping you'd let me take you out to dinner. Uh, I'd like very much to hear more about your ape-man."

She stopped and looked at him. "Honestly?"


"You must pardon my suspiciousness. I have been booed and hissed out of almost every hallowed hall of learning in the world. This is the last. I tried to have my paper heard at the Northwestern and Chicago universities, but I'm afraid my reputation preceded me and they said absolutely not. That's why you had to listen to my presentation at a meeting room at the Chicago Public Library."

"So will you come out with me?"

The woman thought about it for a very long moment. She set down her cases and walked to the man at the episcope, quietly conferred with him, and returned. "It's really not a good idea for us to talk in public, but my hotel is nearby. You and I can go up to my room."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Edgar said. "Chicago police keep an eye on even the nicest hotels. They might arrest you for soliciting. But my apartment's not too far. The wife and kids have gone to her mother's for the weekend. I mean ... sorry, that sounds ..."

"Mr. Burroughs, your apartment's a fine idea. I'm not afraid of you. But don't you care about the neighbors?"

He eyed the woman's bulky luggage. "I'll tell them you're selling vacuum cleaners."

She smiled broadly. "That will do."

They were largely silent on the taxi ride across town to his Harris Street walk-up, except for the exchange of pleasantries about the lovely spring weather they were having and how April was almost always horrible in England.

It was just Edgar's rotten luck that the only neighbor who saw them come in was the landlord, a petty, peevish little man who was looking for the rent, now more than a week late. Edgar was relieved to get Jane Porter up the three flights and inside, shutting the door behind them, but he cringed to see the empty cereal bowl and box of Grape-Nuts that he'd left on his writing desk. There was a pile of typewritten pages on letterhead lifted from the supply closet of the pencil sharpener company he worked for, a mass of cross-outs and arrows from here to there, scribbled notes to himself in both margins.

"It's a novel I'm writing, or should say rewriting ... for the third time. I call it The Outlaw of Torn." Edgar grabbed the bowl and cereal box and started for the kitchen. "I turn into a bit of a bachelor when my wife is away. By that I don't mean ..."

"It's all right," she called after him. "You have children?"

"A boy and girl, two and three. Why don't you sit down? Can I get you something to drink? Tea? A glass of sherry?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll have a cup of water. Cool, please."

When Edgar returned from the kitchen, his guest was sitting at the end of the divan in an easy pose, her back against the rounded arm, her head leaning lazily on her hand. She had taken off her suit coat, and now he could see she wore no stiff stays under the white silk blouse, those torturous undergarments that mutilated a woman's natural curves. She wore no jewelry save a filigreed gold locket hanging between shapely breasts, and it was only when she was opening the second of the two cases holding the skeleton that he saw she wore a simple gold wedding band. He could see now where she had meticulously pieced together the shattered bones of the apelike face.

He set the water down and sat across from her. Now she sighed deeply.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Edgar asked, praying silently that she did.

"Well, I've never told this in its entirety. The academics don't wish to hear it. But perhaps your 'pulp fiction' readers will. I can tell you it's a story of our world — a true story, one that will rival your John Carter of Mars."

"Is it about you?"

"A good part of it is."

"Does what happened to you in the story explain your fearlessness?"

"I told you, I'm not frightened of you. I ..."

"I don't mean me. You took an awful lot of punishment this afternoon ... and in public, too. You're a better man than I."

She found Edgar's remark humorous but grew serious as she contemplated his question. "I suppose they did toughen me up, my experiences." She stared down at her controversial find, and he saw her eyes soften as though images were coming into focus there.

"Where does it begin?" he asked.

"Well, that depends upon when I begin. As I've said, I've never told it before, all of it." She did some figuring in her head. "Let me start in West Central Africa, seven years ago."

"Africa!" Edgar liked this story already. Nowhere on earth was a darker, more violent or mysterious place. There were to be found cannibals, swarthy Arab slave traders, and a mad European king who had slaughtered millions of natives.

"It just as well could start in England, at Cambridge, half a year before that." She smiled at Edgar. "But I can see you like the sound of Africa. So, if you don't mind me jumping around a bit ..."

"Any way you like it," Edgar said. "But I know what you mean. It's not easy figuring out how to begin a story. For me it's the hardest part."

"Well then ... picture if you will a forest of colossal trees. High in the fork of a fig, a great nest has been built. In it lies a young woman moaning and delirious. Her body is badly bruised and torn."

"Is it you?" Edgar asked.

Jane Porter nodded.

"I have it in my mind. I can see it very well." Edgar could feel his heart thumping with anticipation. He allowed his eyes to close. "Please, Miss Porter ..." There was a hint of begging in his voice. "Will you go on?"


July 1905

It was the hurt that woke me — white-hot needles at shoulder and calf, and deep spasms the width and length of my back. My head throbbed. Fever seared. Limbs like lead. Bright patterns dancing behind closed lids. Too much effort to move a finger, a toe. Frightening. Did I have the strength to open my eyes? And what was the cause of my agony? What had happened? Where was I? Then I remembered. Recalled the last sensation that was pure terror made corporeal.

I was a leopard's next meal.

Why was I not dead? Was I even now in the cat's lair? Would I open my eyes to a pile of bones and rotting corpses of its earlier prey? Was the cat waiting an arm's length away to finish me?

No. Beneath me was softness. My arms and legs were gently positioned and cushioned. But this was not a bed. The air was fresh, fragrant. I was outdoors. I could make no sense of it. I strained to remember. Called out for help.

I dared to hope.

"Father?" My voice was so weak. How would he ever hear me? I drew a long breath to give me strength, but that small act was a knife to my ribs. I fought to raise my lids, but the minuscule muscles defied me.

"Fah-thah." It was a male voice, deep and resonant, even in its youth. Fevered as I was, a chill ran through me.

Who was this stranger? Dare I speak again?

A wave of pain assailed me and crushed the words into meaningless cries and moans. I was so weak, buffeted, helpless in a sea of suffering. Then two strong, comfortable arms cradled me, lifted me tenderly, held me to a broad male breast as a father would a small, ailing child.

Relief flooded me and I sank gratefully into my protector's chest. The skin was smooth and hairless, the scent richly masculine. The throbbing heartbeat against my ear was strong and I heard the mindless humming, a familiar lullaby. I was rocked so gently that I fell into a swoon of safe repose.

* * *

How long it was before I awoke again I did not know. But with the pain having substantially subsided, when I opened my eyes this time I could see very clearly indeed, and my mind had regained sense and order.

I was in the crook of a tree where four stout limbs came together, lying on a thick bed of moss. I saw the naked, heavily muscled back of the man I remembered only for his fatherly embrace. He squatted beside me in what could rightly be called a "nest." His skin was mildly tanned, marred only by several fresh scratches and puncture wounds, the hair a matted black mass hanging down below his shoulders.

When he turned, he was spitting a just-chewed blue-green substance from his mouth into his hand, and was as startled at my waking state as I was at the entirety of him.

We were equally speechless. He never took his eyes from me as he finished chewing, then spat the rest of the paste into his palm. I lifted onto my elbows but winced at the pain this caused my left shoulder. I turned my head and saw the appalling injury — four deep gouges in the flesh.

He gently pushed me down and began to pack the green substance into the wounds. His ministrations were straightforward, and in the silence as he tended the shoulder scratches and another set on the back of my right calf, I gazed steadily at his face, overcome with a sense of wonder and unutterable confusion.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Perhaps twenty, he was oddly hairless on his cheeks, chin, and under his nose, with only a soft patch at the center of his chest. The face was rectangular with a sharp-angled jaw, the eyes grey and widely set, and alive with intensity and inquisitiveness. Jet-black brows matched the unruly mane.

Though a stranger and clearly a savage, he touched me intimately, but he did so unreservedly, like a workman at his job, and I felt no compulsion to recoil from that touch.


Excerpted from Jane by Robin Maxwell. Copyright © 2012 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
1. Chicago Public Library, April 1912,
2. July 1905,
3. Home,
4. Bones of Contention,
5. The Snake Charmer,
6. The Nest,
7. Evangeline,
8. Libreville,
9. The Great River,
10. Eden,
11. The Mountain,
12. The Tribe,
13. Mothers and Fathers,
14. To the West,
15. Mangani,
16. Zu-dak-lul,
17. Blade,
18. Student and Teacher,
19. Return to Eden,
20. The Great Bower,
21. Kala's Children,
22. The Beast,
23. Conrath,
24. Underworld,
25. The Great Chamber,
26. To the North,
27. Chicago, April 1912,
Mangani-English Glossary,
Author's Note,
The Novels of Robin Maxwell,
About the Author,

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Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
Man_Of_La_Book_Dot_Com More than 1 year ago
Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan by Robin Maxwell is a fem­i­nine take on the famous Bur­roughs novel. This book tells the famous story from the view point of Jane Porter, Tarzan's love interest. Jane Porter is the first and only woman at the Uni­ver­sity of Cam­bridge to study med­i­cine. She is a fish out of water and already an “old maid” being unmar­ried in her early twen­ties. An Amer­i­can explorer named Ral Con­rath invites Jane and her father to join his West African expe­di­tion they both agree. Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan by Robin Maxwell is not a retelling of the ori­gin story of Tarzan, but a reimag­in­ing of the mythol­ogy orig­i­nally cre­ated by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I was very excited about this novel, Tarzan has always been a favorite (who can for­get those won­der­ful comics and Johnny Weiss­muller films) and in prepa­ra­tion read the orig­i­nal Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Bur­roughs. To be hon­est, I was sur­prised at how much I enjoyed the book again (I read it as a kid), I can cer­tainly see why it is con­sid­ered a clas­sic and cap­tures the imag­i­na­tion of the young and young at heart. Read­ing the first sev­eral pages of this novel I could tell that Jane would be dif­fer­ent. The Jane Porter is this novel is a strong woman, a sci­en­tist and trail blazer. Jane tells her story, after a sci­en­tific pre­sen­ta­tion, to author Edgar Rice Bur­roughs. While this plot device might work, I thought it was a bit awk­ward espe­cially when Jane, a scholar and an old fash­ioned woman (in today’s terms) describes inti­mate details about her rela­tion­ship. I know very few, if any, women who even today would do so to a com­plete stranger. This is by no means a crit­i­cism, in Tarzan of the Apes Bur­roughs skips over the long peri­ods for which it took Tarzan to learn skills. Ms. Maxwell fills in those gaps with slower, more method­i­cal nar­ra­tive. Being the cen­tral char­ac­ter, Jane is cer­tainly inter­est­ing through­out, even if a bit vain. I felt Jane’s char­ac­ter grew through­out the novel, from an uptight stu­dent to a more ani­mal­is­tic crea­ture less depen­dent on her pro­tec­tors (civ­i­lized or not) and more will­ing to take risks in the phys­i­cal or psy­cho­log­i­cal realms. Edgar Rice Bur­roughs, Inc., the com­pany which man­ages the rights to the author’s work, has approved this novel. Accord­ing to the author’s note they were actu­ally quite involved in the process. I believe they made the right choice, Ms. Maxwell cre­ated Jane a believ­able and more grounded char­ac­ter than any man could have (injured Jane’s con­cerns per­form­ing her bod­ily func­tions in front of Tarzan never would have entered my mind). While the Bur­roughs books are pure adven­ture, this novel is more or a romance with adven­ture sprin­kled here and there. I thought the back­ground sto­ries of the char­ac­ters were inter­e
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I adored this book. It is a thrilling ride and puts you through emotional straights at times. I did not want it to end! Maxwell has renewed my love for this story and she will capture yours as well. These are tears of joy, not of sadness.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great read!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Robin Maxwell breaks the 'glass ceiling' with her historic fiction novels about powerful women. Jane is the epitome of intellectual and physical prowess; the perfect partner for the jungle god. I can't wait for the movie!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Fiberholic More than 1 year ago
"Jane" is a good read. Maxwell has created a partner for Tarzan in every way. The plot moves rapidly and the characters come to life on the page. Hoorah for the new perspective on the Tarzan story. I can't wait to see the movie version.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It wasn't bad for being written so far past the original. It starts out a little slow because the author uses a lot of descriptive detail to paint the picture. Otherwise not a bad read. However there is some disturbing parts especially in regards to the death of Alice Clayton so there is some warning there.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I thought the book was very true to the Buroughs tradition. Jane was one of the most interesting female characters I have read in the last ten years.