What Would Jane Austen Do?

by Laurie Brown

  “Weather may have been a factor. We’ll have to try again.”

  Carl groaned. “This might change your mind.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his dressing gown pocket and handed it over. “I found that at dusk before it started to rain.”

  Shermont examined the scrap about an inch square. “Rough edges, obviously torn.” He rubbed it between his fingers. “Good quality paper. The ink is a bit smudged, but the writer is educated.” The word “midnight” was clearly visible as was a partial word below it. “Damn cocksure. Didn’t even bother to use a code.”

  “The delicate writing and curly endings to the letters indicate a lady’s hand. I told you it was a trysting place. Probably said ‘Meet me at midnight.’ ”

  “This second partial word ‘oordina’ probably was ‘coordinate.’ Not a word I would expect used in a lover’s note.”

  “Coordinate meeting times. Coordinate stories. Maybe coordinate elopement plans.”

  Shermont sniffed the paper. “This smells like your soap.”

  “I had it tucked in my shirt. What? I was trying to keep it dry.”

  “Did you check it for perfume residue before you stashed it against your heart?”

  “No,” Carl admitted sheepishly.

  “Too bad. An identifiable scent might have pointed us directly to the female writer.”

  “Then you agree it was a lady?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m more certain than ever the oak is being used as a drop point.” Shermont sat back in his chair and tapped his chin with two fingers. His recent chess game had reminded him of the value of an oblique offense. He rose and went to the desk to write a note. “I want you to get this message to our contact at Court. Planting a news article in the Times should scare up activity among our quarries.” He handed over the note.

  Carl read it. “The Times is going to want confirmation before they run an unbelievable story like this.”

  “Who says it’s not true? Don’t worry. They’ll run it in the morning edition.”

  “You want me to go now?” Carl asked with an unbelieving expression. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

  “Well, I can’t go. I’d never get back in time for the picnic.”

  Carl narrowed his eyes. “Too bad you don’t have a sample of that female’s handwriting.”

  They both knew to whom he referred.

  “If there is nothing else, I will prepare for my journey,” Carl said.

  He wished Carl Godspeed, and the valet left him alone with his unsettled thoughts. Other than social obligations, Shermont had spent little time alone with a female that had not been a prelude to bedding her. And yet he had enjoyed the hour he’d spent with Eleanor—not that he didn’t want to bed her—but that had not been his main goal. He wanted to get to know her. He tried, unsuccessfully, to convince himself that he found her fascinating due to the possibility she was involved in the selling of secrets to the French. Foreign agent or not, she was not like any other female he could remember.

  * * *

  “Hurry up,” Deirdre called from inside the open landau. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Eleanor took one last look at the picturesque scene. Two carriages, women in their colorful summer dresses and bonnets, men of the party on horseback, all lined up for the parade to the picnic site. Down the drive, a wagon with supplies and servants went ahead to set up for their arrival. She ran down the front stairs, and a footman offered an arm to steady her climb up the steps into the second conveyance. The carriage lurched forward as soon as she’d settled next to Mina on the seat facing backward. Deirdre and Beatrix sat across from them.

  The other ladies of the party were in the larger, more comfortable closed carriage, much to Fiona and Hazel’s disappointment. Mrs. Holcum had allowed her daughter to ride without a chaperone, but warned she would keep a sharp eye. She’d threatened the coachman. If anything untoward happened, runaway horses or any such nonsense, she’d have his job. She also promised him a half-crown bonus if he maintained a close distance from the leading carriage and all arrived safely.

  The gentlemen, including spry Uncle Huxley, were mounted and rode alongside the carriages when the road width permitted.

  “You girls resemble a lovely summer garden,” Huxley said, referring to the various hues of their dresses.

  Eleanor wore her sunny yellow muslin with a sprig of green leaves embroidered on the length of the skirt, ending in a border of tangled vines and tiny purple flowers. She’d debated whether to wear the yellow. Back in L.A., the color had accented her marginal tan beautifully, but when paler was considered better, the dress did nothing for her. She finally opted to wear it because she had a limited number of dresses, and it seemed absolutely necessary to change clothes several times a day. She covered her arms with long gloves and a white muslin shawl with embroidered tambour work that she borrowed from Mina.

  Mina was in pink with rose accents, Deirdre in blue with orange accents, and Beatrix in white with red embroidery and ribbons. Each carried a parasol for shade, Eleanor having borrowed an old one from Deirdre. Small talk passed the time as the lead coach kept the pace to a crawl.

  The horses, kept to the same pace by their riders, appeared to resent the slow walk.

  Shermont pulled his mount, a beautiful black Arabian thoroughbred, next to Teddy’s horse. “Dabir is restless. I’m going to give him a run to settle him down.”

  “Dabir seems a strange name for a horse,” Deirdre said before Teddy had a chance to speak.

  “It’s Arabic for teacher.” The horse danced a few steps sideways, and Shermont reined him in. “So named because he does his best to teach me patience.” He smiled at Deirdre before turning back to Teddy. “We’re racing out to that promontory. I call it a mile and a half. Five quid each to the winner. Are you in?”

  “No, thank you. Messenger seems content to keep gentler company, as am I.”

  The lieutenants maneuvered their horses forward and begged the women for a favor to carry for luck. Mina giggled and gave Parker a small pink feather from the decoration on her straw bonnet. He tucked it in his hatband.

  “I like your gray,” Deirdre said as she tied a blue ribbon around Whitby’s wrist.

  They all looked to Beatrix who shook her head. Obviously, she didn’t want to give her red ribbons to anyone other than Teddy, and he wasn’t racing.

  “Come on. It’s just for fun. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Beatrix shook her head again. Mina and Deirdre frowned at her unsporting attitude.

  “What about you,” Mina said to Eleanor. “Are you going to participate in the spirit of the race?”

  Not wanting to be a spoilsport like Beatrix, Eleanor removed a yellow daisy from her bonnet.

  “Will she give it to Alanbrooke or Shermont? Or will the handsome newcomer Major Rockingham swoop in to take the honors?” Mina said in a hushed, excited tone to enhance the suspense.

  “Don’t be silly,” Deirdre said. “She just met Rockingham this morning.”

  Everyone’s attention was riveted on Eleanor. She hesitated. What would Jane Austen do? Eleanor smiled and passed her token to Huxley, wishing him good luck.

  With a wink and a cocky grin at the younger men, he stuck the flower in the buttonhole on the lapel of his bottle-green coat. “The filly and I will endeavor to do you proud.”

  The men lined up alongside the road. Huxley threw his hat in the air, and when it hit the ground, they all took off. The women cheered their favorites. Mina begged the driver to stop the carriage so they could see the entire race. John Coachman was having no part of any foolishness and kept the horses to a steady, sedate pace. Too soon a turn in the road blocked their view.

  Mina sat back against the squabs with a pout.

  “I can’t believe you passed up a chance to race your pride and joy,” Deirdre said to her brother. “Thirty pounds sterling to the winner. Isn’t that what you call easy money?”

  “I could take the mi
litary horses with ease, but if Shermont’s stallion decided to make a race, it might be another story. And Huxley is right keen on his filly. She’s not much to look at, but he swears she’s fast. He’s thinking about taking her on the racing circuit.”

  “I can’t believe Messenger is so calm,” Mina said. “Is he ill?”

  Teddy shook his head. “I had the grooms exercise him hard early this morning so he would behave in front of our guests.”

  Eleanor looked off into the distance. Not having been born to privilege, she couldn’t help but wonder what time the servants had gotten up to prepare everything for this carefree party.

  “Ha’penny for your thoughts,” Teddy said.

  She doubted he would understand. “The view is beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed.

  But when she glanced back, he wasn’t looking at the countryside. She turned away. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a tumble of rocks on top of the highest hill in the neighborhood.

  “That’s where we’re going—the ruins of an abbey dating back to the twelfth century. It’s part of the estate, but to get there by road we have to go around the long way.”

  “Is that a cottage in the woods?” she asked, squinting.

  “Yes. An old gypsy woman lives there. The lord of the manor granted her use of the cottage for as long as she lived in payment for saving his child’s life with a magic potion. That child was my great-great-grandfather.”

  “Impossible.”

  “If we had time, we could stop. I’d introduce you.”

  Eleanor shook her head, but she had to smile.

  The carriages traveled across a bridge over a wide and swift stream. Several hundred yards upstream a mill wheel sloshed and creaked as it turned the huge stones inside.

  Eleanor had never seen such a sight other than in books. Entranced, she said, “The sound of the water is almost musical.”

  “For good reason,” Teddy said. “You, of course, have heard of the famous opera singer Carmelita Cadenza. No? Well, I suppose it was before our time. Apparently, Grandfather was besotted by the beautiful Carmelita. She was the toast of London, but she was terribly homesick. So she decided to return to her native Italy and the humble millhouse where she’d been born. Grandfather could not bear to see her go, so he built this for her. She retired from the stage and lived here happily for several years.”

  “How romantic,” Beatrix said with a sigh.

  “Carmelita loved her little mill. She tended her garden and did all the tasks a mill owner does, but she never gave up singing. She would sing as she went about her chores. Even the peasants would stop on the bridge to listen to her arias. Then suddenly, one day the wheel was still and the air silent. Poor Carmelita was dead. Unbeknownst to all but her maid, the opera singer had suffered from a rare and fatal disease.

  “Grandfather was beside himself with grief, and after the funeral he returned here with an ax to take the mill apart piece by piece. The music of the water stopped him. It was as if he heard her singing. He let the mill stand, though he could never bring himself to come back again. They say she still haunts the mill she loved, waiting for Grandfather to return. Several have reported seeing her ghost in the old garden, and countless people have heard her singing.”

  All four women pulled handkerchiefs out of reticules and sleeves to dab at their eyes. After much sniffling, Deirdre demanded, “No more sad stories.”

  Teddy twisted around in his saddle and pointed to a group of buildings on another hill. “That farm once belonged to our family, but it was lost by the third Lord Digby to the current owner’s ancestor in a card game. The story goes that Farmer Hasselrood coveted that particular piece of land so much he put up his beautiful eldest daughter against the deed. While the gamblers argued over exact terms and boundaries, word of the unusual bet traveled through the household staff like a greased pig on fair day and reached the ears of the third Lady Digby. She stormed into the card room as play was about to resume. With her staring daggers at him, Digby folded an ace-king combo, a surefire winning hand in vingt-et-un. The farm belongs to the Hasselroods to this day.”

  “I thought that was the Smith’s dairy?” Mina said.

  Teddy hesitated only a moment before he laid one hand over his heart. “I cannot believe Hasselrood sold the family farm. I am shocked, astounded, and … and …”

  “Lying,” Eleanor supplied.

  Beatrix sucked in her breath. “How dare you call him a liar?”

  Deirdre and Mina only laughed.

  “You are caught fair and square,” Deirdre said to Teddy. She turned to Beatrix and Eleanor. “It’s a game we used to play as children to pass the time on long carriage rides and keep Mina entertained. Of course, Teddy was always the best at it.”

  “It took me years to figure it out,” Mina said, sticking out her bottom lip.

  “Well, I think the stories were wonderful,” Beatrix said. She spared Eleanor a superior glance before turning an ingratiating smile to Teddy. “I would never question your veracity.”

  “How did you know I was lying?” Teddy asked Eleanor. “Too far-fetched?”

  For some reason, she didn’t want to reveal his hesitation had tipped her off. “I’m not sure what it was. Just a feeling.”

  “My favorite story involved great-grandmother and the Sultan of Arabee.” But Deirdre didn’t have time to elaborate because the other gentlemen of the party rode up.

  “Did you win? Did you win?” Mina asked Parker. She practically bounced out of her seat with excitement.

  Sadly, the lieutenant shook his head. Whitby and Rockingham also indicated the negative. Huxley grinned and held up a purple velvet pouch that clanked when he shook it.

  “Yeah, Uncle Huxley!” Deirdre started the applause, but everyone joined in.

  Huxley gave a nod to Shermont and his horse, several yards distant. “That high-strung brute of his got spooked by a rabbit, or else Baby here would have been a close second.” Huxley patted his horse’s neck. “Nice race,” he called to Shermont.

  “Did you ask the girls about the play?” Whitby asked Teddy.

  Mina turned her attention to her brother. “What play?”

  “We’re all going to put on a play,” Parker jumped in excitedly. “Just like when we were in school, except with real girls to play the female parts.” His voice trailed off at the end.

  Blushing, he steered his horse to the outside of the pack as the carriage halted.

  “We’re here,” Aunt Patience trilled as she alighted from the lead coach.

  “What’s the play about?” Deirdre asked.

  “There’s a princess in distress, a witch, a pirate, an enchanted frog, dastardly deeds, and a happy ending,” Teddy said.

  “Can I be in the play,” Mina asked. “Please, please, can I?”

  “All the young people will have a role,” he promised.

  “Unless they don’t want one,” Shermont said as he rode by.

  Eleanor watched as he dismounted. He said something to the stableboy as he handed over the reins that made the youngster grin while he led the horse away. She couldn’t reconcile the man who’d callously hurt her feelings the previous night with the one she observed. He helped Mrs. Maxwell across the field to where several tables had been set up. Minutes later, his deft grab saved a footman from taking a header with a large tray. Shermont was helpful and courteous to everyone without making a big deal. To everyone except her.

  Which didn’t really matter, because in the dark sleepless hours before dawn, she’d decided to pay no attention to him. Not that she intended to cut him directly. That would be noticeably rude, and then she would have to explain her actions to Deirdre or Mina or Teddy. No. She would pretend he didn’t exist unless circumstances necessitated speaking to him. And then she would be excruciatingly polite. Much the way Anne Eliot behaved toward Fredrick Wentworth when they met again after eight years in Jane Austen’s Persuasion. Except Anne was still in love with Fredrick, and, of c
ourse, Eleanor wasn’t in love with Shermont.

  She didn’t believe in love at first sight. Lust, perhaps. But pheromones and hormones were not love. And lust could be controlled.

  Unfortunately, a campaign of indifference was far less satisfying when it wasn’t even noticed by the target of her premeditated lack of interest. Shermont seemed to be ignoring her.

  “Are you going to sit in the carriage all day?” Mina asked.

  Eleanor started out of her reverie and realized everyone else was gone, already broken into small groups according to activity. The chaperones sat around a table sipping lemonade. Uncle Huxley, far enough away not to be included in their conversation, read the newspaper. Fiona and Hazel had climbed the stones of the ruins to the lookout point and postured in what they thought were provocative poses. Teddy and the military men had gathered off to one side. From their gestures and the occasional word carried on the breeze, she could tell they were discussing the war. Shermont was over by the horses, chatting with the groom and pointing to his stallion’s hoof.

  “Come on. Out, out,” Deirdre insisted, motioning for Eleanor to get down. “Stretch your legs before we eat.”

  Mina spread her arms. “Welcome to our picnic area. Teddy wanted to build a folly over there, but we insisted he keep it natural. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Yes, indeed.” The top of the hill had been sliced off, leaving a broad, smooth, grassy field ringed by woods. A few trees had invaded two or three strides into the clear area as if on purpose to provide shade.

  “We’re going to pick wildflowers for the tables. Would you like to come with us?”

  “No … ah … thank you, no.”

  “Are you ill?” Deirdre asked. “You are a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine. You go ahead.” The sight of Huxley reading the paper had reminded her of an earlier idea to check for news items that might entice Shermont to return to London. “I’m going to have some lemonade.”

  “Are you sure?” Mina eyed the table full of chaperones with a grimace.

  “Go on. Pick lots of flowers.”

  “If you’re determined to go over there, be warned. Don’t let them draw you into a game of whist, not even for pennies. You might win the first hand or two, but before you know it, you’ll owe them three months pin money.”