A Very Austen Romance

by Robin Helm

  “Well. As enlightened as we consider ourselves to be,” Margaret muttered to herself, “I don’t see that we are much different here. Perhaps not Divine favor but favor nonetheless.”

  And with that thought behind her, Margaret lost herself in the letters of George Forster to his esteemed friend. The moon, still days from reaching fullness, cast a small but comforting light through the windows. With a mirror behind her and the candle, light reflected well enough for comfortable reading. It isn’t as fine as beneath the table where I can imagine myself alone on a ship or being carried about in a palanquin. Still, it will do for the month.

  In that moment, Margaret decided. She’d secure an invitation to stay for another month and write her mother in the morning. Mr. Berridge, kind and pious stepfather that he was, would not be sorry to have her gone from the vicarage. An unmarried daughter at nearly twenty-four tended to cause uncomfortable questions, and though he never reproached her, his silent disapproval of how she did and did not spend her time often found a voice through her mother’s lips.

  Mr. Forster informed his friend, and therefore her, that the “Hindoo women” were not allowed the “use of letters” because it might make them disinclined to be the subservient creatures they were expected to be. Margaret shut the book with a snap. “Insufferable!”

  As quietly as she may have spoken the word, it shouted and echoed in her heart. What sort of nonsense was that? Severe reproach for knowing something worth discussing?

  Creak!

  Margaret sat up. Heart beating fast, she slid the book onto the table and extinguished the candle. A pause… listening. The library door was prone to stick a little in the wee hours of the morning. When she heard that momentary catch of wood on wood, Margaret, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, dashed around the chair and behind the heavy drapes.

  ***

  The library door caught and held for just a moment before swinging open. Strange. I don’t remember it catching that way this morning. It seemed the sort of thing a conscientious man like the Colonel would have repaired by now.

  A chair Conrad had seen earlier beckoned him, and beside it, a table with a well-situated mirror told him it was a favorite reading place of an evening. Indeed, a candle and book rested there as if waiting for someone. The title of the book caught his eye as he seated himself. Forster’s. A Journey from Bengal to England, through the Northern Part of India, Kashmire, Afghanistan, and Persia, and into Russia, by the Caspian-Sea.

  I presume you saw the title here and chose to use it to… impress me? Intimidate me? Silence me?

  His thoughts were arrested when his hand bumped the candle that rested next to his… and it was warm. Who was here? It couldn’t have been long to be so warm…

  Sounds from outside prompted him to extinguish his candle and wait. Seconds passed. Every sound magnified. Was that a horse’s hoof? It was. The crunch of boots. A messenger? Already? Voices—more than one. Not the messenger.

  More likely the supposed highwaymen. And if they were the sort of “highwaymen” he expected, they’d come straight for… the library. With that thought he moved toward the doorway, ready to call on the Colonel for assistance, but it was too late. That same creak he’d heard echoed again, and Conrad acted.

  He skirted the chair and slipped behind the curtain, ready to extricate himself if it proved to be someone friendlier than he suspected. The space, however, was already occupied. By Miss Dashwood, of course. How he knew she would have spoken, he couldn’t say, but hearing the door resist opening as it had, he clapped his hand over what he hoped was her mouth, leaned close, and whispered, “Not a word.”

  While he would have preferred that her acquiescence had been prompted by respect and trust, Conrad suspected the hushed voices of two… no, three men whispering loud enough to wake the dead. May I ask for favor, Almighty Father, and for no sudden urges to cough or sneeze? If we are caught here…

  It was true, of course. If anyone should find him alone with Miss Dashwood at two in the morning, he would be expected to offer her marriage without delay. Their compromising position behind the drapery would only add fuel to a gossip-fed fire. It would be a breach of hospitality in addition to jeopardizing Miss Dashwood’s character. And all because I was too selfish not to share… That arrested all self-flagellate thoughts. She came down… was reading…

  Miss Dashwood stiffened. Senses heightened as Conrad listened while the intruders searched. One hand pushed on his chest, a silent order for him to do something. Or to let you pass so you may? That thought prompted a smile even while he leaned close again and whispered, “No.”

  To her credit, Miss Dashwood listened. Not that she agreed with him. Oh, no. Her disapproval and disapprobation radiated from her. Indeed, Conrad wondered that the intruders did not feel it and flee.

  Words reached them as the searchers drew closer. “Where else would it be?”

  “The man’s room?”

  They can’t go up there. They’ll find me gone.

  A hissed, “Are you sure he arrived?” followed.

  “Someone did.”

  A third voice joined in, a little deeper and softer and with far more authority. “We’ll return. Perhaps in a day or two.”

  And with that, the men left.

  They’d not yet made it through the front door before Margaret moved as if to leave. Conrad stopped her. “Wait,” he whispered. “Just wait.”

  He counted. Without light to see his pocket watch, Conrad had no hope of knowing how much time had passed, but he’d learned early that people doubled back when they forgot something or to be sure they hadn’t been followed. After two minutes, he stepped aside and held the curtain for her to pass.

  “You allowed them to escape!” While hissed in an undertone, they pierced louder than a scream.

  Having to justify his actions rankled, but putting her in her place might prove satisfactory enough to make it worth the trouble. “Considering we do not know if they were armed, how many there were in other areas of the house, how dangerous they are, if they would injure you…” He sharpened an edge to his tone before adding, “… or if they could injure your reputation by catching you here, alone, in the dark, with me…” He dropped the curtain and folded his arms over his chest. “What are you doing in here at this time of morning?”

  “Considering you arrived here ready to assume command of my library, I decided to take the night watch if you must know.” He felt rather than saw her eyes narrow. “What are you doing here?”

  His voice rose just a little. “Your library? How foolish of me. I’d been led to believe it belonged to the Colonel.” At her huff, he added in a slightly more congenial tone, “I came to do the same. You are welcome to spend your days in here. I’m accustomed to late nights.”

  “I’d already planned to do this. You cannot—”

  Conrad couldn’t help his interruption. The whole thing had become quite ludicrous. “Perhaps we should have discussed this.”

  This time, Miss Dashwood’s voice scaled. “Well, maybe we should!”

  “And perhaps we should…” he dropped his words to a whisper, “—lower our voices before we rouse the house and manage to put your reputation into question.”

  Whatever else she’d planned to say died on her lips. After a moment, presumably to gather herself together, Miss Dashwood agreed. “Yes, of course, you are correct.”

  As she came to the full realization of what their position could have cost her, sympathy welled up in him. “Go to bed, Miss Dashwood. As soon as I hear your door shut, I’ll rouse the Colonel and we’ll give chase, if he chooses. I doubt he will.”

  “Once he hears, surely…”

  Explaining would be useless, of course, but Conrad found himself doing it anyway. “I’ll tell him all, I assure you—all but the fact that I was not alone in this room. However, if my suppositions are correct, he’ll prefer to capture them when they return rather than alert them to our knowledge of their presence.”

  �
��Oh, yes. That is an excellent thought. I’m still befuddled by the whole business.” Without him having to remind her, she fumbled for her book and candle. As she turned to go, Miss Dashwood added, “You’ll tell me all tomorrow, of course.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  Silence hung heavy in the room. A cloud moved in front of the moon and plunged it into oppressive darkness. “I see. Well, perhaps it’s for the best.”

  I’ll need to give thanks to God that you have some sense in you.

  “I will, of course, be obliged to tell my brother-in-law that I spent some twenty minutes alone with his guest whilst the house slept. It will cause all sorts of trouble for both of us, but…”

  “You don’t want to do that, Miss Dashwood.”

  To his surprise, the young lady stepped a bit closer to him and murmured, “No, Mr. Thayer. You do not want me to do it. However, should you decide to be forthcoming about your interview with the Colonel, I will easily be persuaded to forget to mention my presence here.”

  “I—” She had him, and she knew it. Every word should have rankled, but instead, Conrad found himself agreeing to meet her by the garden walk after breakfast… and almost admiring her ability to manipulate the situation to her purpose.

  He followed her upstairs at such a pace that he could hide if anyone came along, and once her door shut, he bolted down to where the Brandon’s suite had been pointed out to him. A knock. A bell. Brandon appeared pulling on a dressing gown.

  “Thayer?” He pulled the door shut behind him and lowered his voice. “What is it?”

  “Intruders in the library. I hid behind the curtain when I had nothing to arm myself with.” Admitting that proved more difficult than he’d anticipated. “There were three voices, but I cannot be certain there weren’t more—outside, at least. They’ll return, they said—as soon as in a day or two.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t confront them. If they’re here for the dispatch, they would have killed you for it. They’ll be back, and we’ll be waiting.” The Colonel waved back a man who rushed toward them and assured him all was well. “I was hasty.” After a second glance, the man murmured his acquiescence and disappeared.

  Conrad, still not having had time to avail himself of a respite in the library, presented his next solution. “We’ll need to keep watch, of course. I will begin at once. I’ll bring down my pistol and—”

  “Keeping watch will be necessary, of course,” Brandon agreed. “But I do not suppose they will return tonight.”

  “Then tomorrow night after midnight.”

  “No,” Brandon objected with the tone of a man used to giving orders. “You cannot take the whole night. It is impossible.”

  “I’ll have a book to read—”

  “You cannot have light in there. Without light, you will not find it easy to stay awake. We’ll take shifts.”

  Which means I cannot do my library reading at night. Miss Dashwood will not enjoy me intruding on “her” library, and she now has something to hold over me. Conrad agreed with some reluctance and bade his host goodnight. As he made his way back to his own quarters, rebellion welled up in him. There was no reason he should be manipulated in this manner. Let her tell the Brandons of our meeting. Let us see how a forced marriage suits her. If he was certain of being sent to sea quickly, and of dying before his return, Conrad might have found the strength to tell Miss Dashwood to inform anyone she liked.

  But which of us has the stronger will…?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Never had sleep been more elusive. Margaret lay in bed, tossing and turning until daybreak, her mind awhirl with ideas and theories. The men had spoken in such cloaked terms she felt certain they’d used Mr. Whethering’s dullness to their own purpose, but aside from missives and deliveries, she couldn’t be certain what it had all meant. Not at the time, that is. However, she now felt reasonably certain that even Mr. Whethering, with some leading or assistance, might come to the same conclusion she had. Something was to be delivered. There were those who might wish to confiscate whatever “it” was. The men would do what they could to prevent that.

  The aforementioned conclusion? Mr. Thayer was there on an errand for the Admiralty.

  That of course, prompted other questions. Was the Colonel to receive whatever it was? Had it been delivered? Or, was it to be delivered to the Colonel for Mr. Thayer? The other way around, perhaps? The worst of it all was, of course, that she simply didn’t know the answer. It could have been some combination of all or none of her ideas. Conjecture is only satisfying when proven.

  Margaret redressed before Betsy could arrive to stoke the fire and fuss over her. Her hair did little to cooperate with her attempts to pin it up, so she did her best and forced a bonnet overtop the pile. With a few pulled curls around her face, and a bit of smoothing to each one, she looked as if all was well beneath. That was sufficient for her!

  A lady of three-and-twenty does not skip down the stairs like a hoyden of twelve, but that had never stopped Margaret Dashwood. Roberts stood by the terrace door as if he’d anticipated her and had it open the moment she arrived. Her, “Good morning, Roberts,” was met with his usual inexpressive but courteous reply. Margaret held a secret belief that in his mind, he conjured witty and sarcastic rejoinders for his own private amusement.

  Mist had settled over the park, and Margaret pulled her shawl just a bit closer. Despite the chill, the dampness, the likely ruination of her hem from mud and wet grass, she set off at a quick clip, reveling in the newness of the day. With no clouds left in the sky, at present anyway, the sun would burn off the fog once it rose high enough, and it would be a perfect afternoon for bowls.

  A brisk walk—that’s all she needed to clear her mind and refresh her body. Unlike her sister, Margaret tended to stay near the house unless the sun shone without threat of a downpour, so with it growing brighter and warmer with every minute, she turned away from the orderly gardens toward the little rise on the north corner of the estate. From there, she could bask in the beauty of the Dorsetshire countryside.

  The prospect had long been her favorite. The fields, the hedgerows, the little copse of birch trees near the village where cattle were wont to gather—it brought to mind the words of the psalmist. “Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad; let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof. Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice.”

  Her shawl protected her skirt from dirt and damp as she took advantage of a fallen log the Colonel had threatened to remove a dozen times—to tease her, of course. She did not believe he’d see it gone any more than she would.

  There, seated in her favorite place, Margaret found her mind could sort its collection of questions into some semblance of order. Answers followed, and a smile formed as she considered what to do next.

  ***

  The yew arbor. Conrad had entered the breakfast room in time to hear Miss Dashwood inform Mrs. Brandon that she intended to take her book out to the arbor for morning reading. “Perhaps later we might meet on the green for a game of bowls? The sun seems willing to favor us with his presence today.”

  You enjoy active amusements as well as reading then, Miss Dashwood?

  “That is an excellent idea. I’ve had little enough exercise this past week as it is.” Mrs. Brandon greeted him from in front of the fire where she toasted her bread. “And will you join us, Mr. Thayer? We would enjoy your company.”

  “Of course. I thank you for the inclusion.”

  He met Miss Dashwood’s gaze and gave a single nod to assure her of his understanding. I’m to meet you in this yew arbor.

  Mrs. Brandon seated herself at the small table and spread marmalade on the toast. “Have you plans for the morning, Mr. Thayer?”

  “I thought to explore the grounds. I’ve heard much of your gardens and fruit trees. Mrs. Croft once mentioned a fine mulberry…”

  As he’d hoped, the conversation followed a path that wove through t
he grounds of Delaford until only a simpleton couldn’t have found any place he might hope to visit. Miss Dashwood played the part of the aggrieved young lady with incongruous alacrity. Even Mrs. Brandon gave her a befuddled expression and asked if she’d gotten too much sun in her morning walk.

  “I’m in congenial temper, I assure you. Perhaps the eggs are a bit dry, they certainly do stick to one’s throat. What prompted their presence today?”

  “I thought Mr. Thayer might prefer something a little more substantial,” Marianne admitted.

  After his expression of appreciation, Miss Dashwood resumed command of the conversation. She turned to Conrad. “You will, of course, take time to visit the library. I know it is of particular interest.”

  Only the faintest trace of a smile gave her away.

  You enjoy this, Miss Dashwood. I underestimated you. Aloud, he merely said, “Perhaps.”

  If her sniff meant what he thought it did, it had been the correct response.

  Colonel Brandon entered the room distracted. His eyes remained riveted to a letter, and only kissed his wife’s hand in passing as if almost unaware of her presence. It might have amused him, but Miss Dashwood’s immediate interest in the missive prompted curiosity on his part. Does she know something because of the contents or his interest in the contents? A glance at Mrs. Brandon only showed amusement in her husband’s distraction.

  “How is Edward, Colonel?”

  Whoever Edward was, Miss Dashwood had likely seized on the correct author of the letter. Colonel Brandon looked up over the top of the paper and blinked before smiling at her. “He and Elinor are well. He’s received the recommendations for the church roof and has detailed them for me.”

  “Is the damage extensive?”

  “Less severe than I first thought, but apparently he considers it inflated. I’ll ride over today and inspect it myself, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Brandon expressed a desire to go with him, but Miss Dashwood declined. “That visiting curate is still there, I assume?”