The Austen Escape

by Katherine Reay

  I opened my mouth, but stopped at her whispered, “Later, Mary. There’s a lot I need to say, but please, not right now.”

  I closed my mouth. Something new had already begun. “Later then . . . I wish my mom could see this.”

  Isabel nodded. “Me too. She’d love it . . . So would your dad.”

  “I’ll need to take lots of pictures.”

  Gertrude returned with a young woman carrying a large silver tea tray. The scent of sugar and orange enveloped us. On the tray were balanced a small plate of sandwiches, another with slices of glazed orange cake, two teacups, and a beautiful teapot covered in butterflies.

  My stomach growled before I could slam my fist into it. “Excuse me. That was rude.”

  “Not at all. You must be starved. But this might sit better than a heavy lunch.” Gertrude reached to unload the tray before it was set down and gave a quick round of introductions.

  Sonia, it seemed, was the young woman assigned to us. While she helped with serving, cleaning, and everything else, she was also available at any time of any day for anything we might need.

  I felt my eyes widen. This was a role I hadn’t anticipated: mistress with a maid. Was I expected to know what Sonia should do? She was only a few years younger than we were, and I certainly hadn’t expected to say things like “Please arrange my hair” or “Please brush out my skirts” to a woman I might call a friend. I pushed out a weak, “Thank you. I’m Mary.”

  Isabel threw me a wry glance, as if I was already messing up the fiction.

  Sonia, however, smiled as she wobbled the tray onto the table. Gertrude was pouring tea midflight. Sonia stepped away from the settled tray just as Gertrude lifted the two full cups and handed them out.

  She continued without missing a beat as Sonia backed from the room. “I’ve had Duncan take your bags to your room. As soon as you’ve enjoyed your tea, please go to the top of the stairs. You’ll find the Green Room third door to the right. If you’d rather not go alone, I can guide you, but this is your home for two weeks, and we have found that letting guests find their way immediately helps them feel more relaxed.” She tapped her fingers together as if checking off items on a list.

  “We usually start the festivities the day after arrival so your first night is more comfortable. Sonia will meet you in the Green Room later to show you where everything is and take you on a tour if you wish. You will find dresses already in the wardrobes, and Sonia can assist if any need alterations.”

  She straightened from the table. “You’ll find your visit here to be steeped in the stories and culture of Jane Austen. As you read on our website, many guests choose characters from her novels they wish to embody during their stay, but don’t feel you must. Others simply enjoy the costumes, the carriage rides, and the long walks, then sit here and check e-mail, work, or watch television. There are televisions hidden in most of the common rooms. I can show you the panels and—”

  “We won’t be needing any of that. Right, Mary?” Isabel straightened. “For my research, I really would like us to stay as close to the fictional dream as possible.”

  “Most guests do. We had one private party who took over the entire house for a Mansfield Park re-creation. It trespassed into reality when one of the wives really did run off with another man.”

  I’m sure I looked shocked, but Isabel’s eyes lit with excitement. She was forming chapters right before my eyes.

  “I’ve made a list of some of our most engaging happenings and scheduled interviews as requested.”

  “Excuse me?” Isabel choked on her tea. “Interviews?”

  “Your father asked me to arrange a formal interview schedule with the staff.” Gertrude darted her eyes between us. “You didn’t know?”

  I reached for Isabel’s cup as she struggled to stop coughing. An array of emotions chased through her eyes—shock, anger, resignation. “We haven’t talked lately, but thank you.” Her face hardened, but her tone remained calm, even gracious. “May I get that from you tomorrow?”

  “We’ll review it at breakfast.” Gertrude waited on Isabel for confirmation, but she was miles away.

  I stepped into the gap. “That’s fine. Thank you. Is there Wi-Fi?”

  Isabel came back to the moment in time to glare at me.

  “I’ll hide it,” I promised, “but I will need to touch base with work. Two weeks is a long time to be gone.”

  Gertrude laughed. “We have a fully equipped business center with most common supplies provided, including charging cables, Ethernet, and HDMI cables too. We also have accounts with several server storage facilities for larger data needs. And the wireless signal is boosted throughout the house. You can check e-mail from the shower, if you wish.”

  “Larger data needs?” My interest was piqued.

  “Business doesn’t stop even for a holiday. I believe Mr. Stanley negotiated a corporate merger over whist one afternoon. The entire game and meeting were conveyed via a sixty-four-inch monitor on the back lawn . . . The Stanleys’ desire is that you feel like a member of the family or a beloved guest,” she continued. “There are no restrictions on what you may do or where you may go, and you need only ask for anything you desire. You’ll find, along with your luggage, Duncan has laid your keys on the desk in your room. Your present attire is appropriate for tonight’s dinner.” She paused, then added with a warmer tone, “Then tomorrow, please pick a gown and enjoy all Braithwaite House has to offer.”

  “Thank you for making us feel so welcome.” I felt the need to say something kind. For some odd reason, I got the impression that although Gertrude knew the speech cold, she didn’t like delivering it.

  She turned, then twisted on her boot’s heel to face us again. “In case I don’t see you out and about later, I’ll tell you now that drinks and light appetizers will be served in the front parlor before dinner, and we will dine in the formal dining room to the left of the front door. After-dinner drinks will be served in the library across the hall—or I may move our party to the larger assembly room, as we have a Swiss family who arrived yesterday, and cards and games might be nice for the child. An Austrian couple checked in this morning and are staying the week as well. You will enjoy the Muellers. They are very pleased to be here, and I expect, Miss Dwyer, they will pepper you with questions.”

  Isabel frowned, as if chatting about Austen or trying to bring others up to speed might impinge upon her own immersion.

  Gertrude didn’t notice that she’d said anything displeasing. She simply nodded as if to say job done and left the room without another word.

  Her withdrawal revealed Sonia, who had been standing behind her in the doorway. “I’ve checked your room,” she said, “and your luggage is already there. There’s a bell pull hanging near the desk. If you ring it after you have rested, I’ll come straight up to answer any questions or take you on a tour.”

  I nodded, but there was no way I was ever going to pull some rope with the expectation that Sonia would come running.

  Once she left, I raised my cup to Isabel and smiled. “There you go. We’ve been invited to a house party, as beloved guests, and we’ve got two weeks to enjoy every bit of it.”

  Isabel had a look in her eye, almost like a general assembling the troops and putting each person, each detail, into place.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “For a man who doesn’t communicate much, my father is making himself loud and clear this time.” She shuddered as if resetting herself. “No matter. You are right. I’ve got two weeks to enjoy this. Let the fun begin.”

  Chapter 8

  Sandwiches, tea, cake, and a warm fire soon revived us, and we went in search of the Green Room. We found our way back to the front hall, peeking in every open doorway and cracking those that were shut. Halfway up the stairs, Isabel stopped to study a headless mannequin dressed in burgundy silk.

  “This is what we’ll be wearing.” She reached up and ran her finger around the inside of the dress’s delicate lace neck. “I
think it’s genuine. Look at the stitching and the silk ribbon pulling it together. It’s all hand sewn, and you can see the disintegration here at the edges. Circa 1810, I’d say. Within a couple years of this, they quit using ribbon or tapes for their dress closures.”

  “Show-off.” I laughed.

  “I’ll let you wax long on the house’s wiring later.” She smirked in reply and moved on.

  The last steps landed us in a broad portrait gallery running each direction along the entire front of the house. It was capped at the ends with the sweeping bays I’d seen from outside. Large paned windows lined the exterior wall to let in light. The gray was clearing to blue outside.

  The opposite and interior wall was colored a deep, almost blood red and was filled with paintings and lined with bookcases and display tables.

  “Look at all this.” I ran my finger along the case’s lead trim. It was warm to the touch. I bent and looked up into the case to find a small row of lights wired beneath.

  “Get up.” Isabel tapped my back.

  “The lighting is mounted in a tiny tape strip, not discrete bulbs. I’ve never seen a strip that small or this application.”

  Isabel tapped my back again before walking on. I stood and studied the cases. They were filled with gloves, small books, tiny silver brushes, pillboxes—little personal treasures. It looked as if someone had dumped out the contents of the bedside tables and dresser drawers and arranged them for display. What was once personal and intimate felt oddly sterile and detached from use, if not meaning, in these cases with their small lights.

  I thought back to my mom—the things she loved. The things that had meaning because she loved them. Her Austen books, now resting in a box on my bookshelf; her sterling silver pillbox tucked away in a shoe box in my closet. She had loved that tiny treasure, kept it close and polished it with the edge of her nightgown when the silver oxidized.

  Isabel backtracked to me. “I’m sure all this came with the house. They probably had boxes of junk in the attic. One owner for all those years? Can you imagine what it must have been like, or how hard it’d be to let all this go?” She turned around slowly to take in the grandeur of the house.

  “I doubt they had a choice.” My focus remained on the glass cases. “Makes you realize how deep the loss went. When industrialization came along, all this was a relic of the past.” I glanced to her. She looked doubtful that I knew what I was talking about. “Junior year. The Industrial Revolution and the rise of automation.”

  She conceded with a nod and walked ahead again.

  I called after her in a half whisper. “Can you imagine what this place must cost to run, not to mention the five full years of renovation?”

  “I know what Daddy paid for two weeks.” She faced me and continued by walking backwards. I raised a brow and received a wagged finger in response. “Uh-uh . . . You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re probably right. Hey . . . Come see this.” I stopped in front of a small velvet-lined and gold-latched book. It looked like a little handbag, a lady’s evening clutch, but it was a book.

  Isabel materialized beside me. “It’s the Book of Common Prayer. They carried those to church on Sundays.” She pointed to the small book next to it. “And that’s a hymnal. Often one lady carried one, another the other, and they shared.”

  “My mom used to have her own hymnal. It was as marked up as her Bible. She sang in the church choir for years. She said she felt closest to God in music.”

  “She did?”

  I glanced up. It always surprised us both when there was a memory we didn’t share.

  “She stopped when I was young; I can only remember a few Sundays. She stood at the end of the first row, near the stairs to the altar, and after she couldn’t sing at church any longer, she’d sing softly while I played the piano . . . She left that hymnal to me. Some of them were the first songs I learned to play.”

  Isabel looped her arm through mine and squeezed it. “Where is it now?”

  “Home. With all the other music books I haven’t touched in years.” I caught sight of the small brass sign on the door next to us. “Didn’t Gertrude say the Green Room?”

  “In Austen’s day they often named rooms this way.” Isabel opened the door and stepped inside while I glanced back to the glass-encased hymnal. Something about it struck me as sad and lost.

  “Come see this,” Isabel called.

  I leaned against the doorjamb and took in our room. By nature and inclination, I’m a hard sciences girl, raised by an electrician, and—although I love a special Saturday visit to Nordstrom’s makeup counter and I did once spend an entire paycheck on a pair of shoes—I’m not usually drawn to fluff and frill. But this room, all twenty by thirty feet of it, took my breath away. It transported me through time, into time, and told a story. The colors were rich and varied like the notes from the hymnal I’d just left in the gallery.

  First and foremost, the room was green. My favorite color. Again, I was struck by its abundance here and its absence in my life. Austin, Texas, had not been green lately, and suddenly it felt more than “not green”—it felt dry and barren. Here I found it in shades I didn’t know existed and in textures I’d never touched. Green draped every soft surface.

  The two full-size beds were covered in pillowy moss-toned duvets and draped in an avocado patterned silk held at the top by carved wood finials and gold detailing. The colors contrasted yet complemented each other. A small sofa sat beneath the central double window, covered in white with a spray of kelly-green flowers and a profusion of pillows. The desk chair, another armchair, and the curtains were upholstered in fabrics covering the spectrum from citrus to forest, with textures that made me want to rub them against my cheek. And the rug . . . I kicked off my shoes. It was thick and soft. My toes sank within the teal and gray swirls that covered the floor’s surface area.

  As for hard surfaces, they were reserved to a writing desk set in front of the smaller side window, two large wardrobes on either sidewall near its respective bed, and the twelve inches of wood floor bordering the rug.

  I turned my attention to the walls. They were papered in a cream color with laurel-colored vines running up every few inches. I ran a finger along a vine. It was slightly bumpy.

  “Could these be hand painted? It’s three-dimensional.”

  “Sure, lots of papers are, especially the really expensive ones.” Isabel dropped her handbag on one of the beds. “It feels a little too haute couture, doesn’t it? Modern meets Regency meets Limitless Funds.”

  “Stop.” I flapped a hand to soften the command. “You’re used to this stuff, but it’s the most exquisite room I’ve ever seen. Don’t tell me this doesn’t floor you. You can’t have seen anything like this often—ceilings this high, the fabrics, the furniture. Look at those carvings.”

  Isabel tipped her head back. “Plaster.” She then caught my expression and held her hands up in surrender. “What? They are. Plaster moldings applied to the ceiling. That’s how it’s done.”

  “Please. Let me enjoy this.”

  “You are getting into it.”

  “It’s surprising me too.” I lifted a shoulder. “Maybe because it’s all so different. It feels like nothing I could imagine. What in my world approaches this?” I walked to the window and grabbed a section of the curtains. “Come feel this. It’s so heavy. I bet there’s more than fifty pounds of fabric here.”

  “Do not weigh the drapery.” Isabel laughed as she headed to a large standing wardrobe.

  I opened the door to the bathroom and ogled again. Here historical accuracy ended. It was all white marble with two porcelain freestanding sinks and a huge claw-footed soaking tub. The fixtures were curved and arched like the necks of swans and their slight warm coloring let me know they were finished in polished nickel rather than chrome, including the heated towel rack mounted outside the shower. But it was the sense of air and light that captivated me most. Sunlight shot through tree limbs and dappled the marble in subt
le color. It was so much softer than the bright white glare of a Texan sun. It felt like music. Brahms’ Lullaby compared to Def Leppard. And . . .

  “Isabel, get in here. The floor is warm; the marble floor is heated. You’ve got to come feel this.”

  She came in and didn’t comment, but I could tell . . . She liked the floor as much as I did. Her lips were pressed tight. She was trying not to smile.

  “Oh, let it out.”

  She giggled and clasped her hands together. “This is so awesome. The pictures were gorgeous, but I didn’t expect this.”

  A few minutes later I crawled under the desk to plug in my adapter and insert cables for both my computer and my phone. “I wish I didn’t have to do this. It feels like I’m betraying the house.” I backed out and sat on the carpet, pressing my hands into the soft wool. “What do you want to do now?”

  Isabel was curled on her bed tapping on her phone. “Give me just a second to e-mail my father, then we’ll dress up.”

  “What?”

  Isabel didn’t reply. “There.” She dropped her phone onto the bed and stood. “Come on. I checked both wardrobes, and since these dresses are shorter, this wardrobe must be mine.” She bent out of sight on the other side of her bed. “The bottom drawers are full of underclothes. They’ve even got boots and silk slippers.” She pulled up one champagne-colored shoe with a pink bow on the toe. It looked like an icing rose atop a birthday cake. “I sent in all our sizes. They even asked color preferences.”

  I pushed off the floor and opened my own wardrobe. “So everything here is tailored to fit me? In a week?”

  “Actually, they had a month—I knew you’d say yes.” Isabel tossed out the sentence with light flippancy, then froze. She faced me. “I wanted you to say yes, Mary. I didn’t know you would, but I hoped. That’s why I called your dad.” She pointed back to my wardrobe. “Pick one. Did you notice the palette?”

  I turned back to my wardrobe. All the dresses had that same high empire waist of the mannequin halfway up the stairs. Some were thick and heavy, wool for winter. Others were light. Cotton for warmer weather. And some, just a few, were organdy and lace or silk, with intricate flowers or swirling designs embroidered on the bodices and hems. And all were warm colors—browns, purples, oranges, dark yellows.