Pies & Prejudice

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “I made sure your mom got the best one,” Emma whispers to me. “It has a view of the gardens and the canal, and there are two beds, so maybe one night you can stay with her.”

  Mrs. Chadwick will be down the hall from us in the Charlotte Bronte room, and Mrs. Wong and Gigi are beside her in a suite named after George Eliot.

  “That was actually the pen name of a writer by the name of Mary Anne Evans,” Mrs. Hawthorne tells us, as we grab our suitcases and start up the sweeping staircase.

  “Why would a girl change her name to George?” asks Cassidy. “Sheesh.”

  “She wanted to be taken seriously as a writer, and it was difficult for women back then,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “Remember how Jane Austen had to publish her novels anonymously?”

  There are oohs and aahs as we all open the doors to our rooms. Each one is unique, with different color schemes and high ceilings and windows that stretch all the way to the floor. There are plump, comfortable armchairs and pretty lamps and beds with lots of pillows piled on them.

  “Wow!” exclaims Becca as Cassidy unlocks our door. “It looks like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves live here.”

  She’s right. Our suite has four beds lined up in a row, and each one has a canopy of drapes over it. My mother pops her head in and smiles when she sees the delighted looks on our faces.

  “Pretty great, huh? Have fun, girls!” And she disappears again.

  Mrs. Hawthorne tells us to unpack and take showers and naps if we want, and that Mr. Hawthorne will be back to get us in a few hours. “We don’t have anything planned for today but getting you rested up and settled in. I thought we’d tour our village and hang out at Ivy Cottage this afternoon, then go out to dinner. There’s a charming old pub by the canal.”

  Becca flops backward onto the bed she’s claimed by the window. She nearly disappears into its fluffy comforter. She sighs happily. “Heaven,” she says. “Pure heaven.”

  Megan heads for the shower, reappearing a second later with the hotel’s fancy toiletries. “Look at the label!” she says, holding up a tiny bottle of shampoo. “Gigi’s gonna be thrilled.”

  “Tea, anyone?” says Emma, plugging in the electric kettle that’s sitting on one of the dressing tables. There’s a stack of teacups and saucers beside it, along with a plate of homemade cookies, and she gets busy preparing a snack for us.

  “I can’t believe we’re really here!” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “We’re in England, you guys!”

  “Yeah, it’s cool, but I need a nap,” says Cassidy. She glares at Emma and me. “Somebody kept me awake on the ride over here, yakking.” She lies down on her stomach on her bed and pulls the pillow over her head.

  Emma and I look at each other and start to laugh. Cassidy is always crabby when she’s tired.

  Becca and Megan decide they want to nap too, but since I got some sleep in the car I’m not tired. After our tea and cookies, Emma and I decide to walk over to Ivy Cottage. She leads me through the hotel’s back door to a wide stone terrace, then through the formal gardens to a narrow track down the hillside. Crossing through a sheep meadow—complete with real sheep—we end up on a gravel path that runs along the length of the canal.

  It feels really good to stretch my legs after sitting on the plane and in the bus for so many hours. I jog around and swing my arms in big circles, breathing in the fresh air.

  “Oh, great,” says Emma, spotting a distant figure on the path ahead.

  “What?”

  She sighs. “Rupert Loomis.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he says as he reaches us.

  “Hi, Rupert,” Emma replies, without enthusiasm. “This is my friend Jessica Delaney.”

  He extends a large, sweaty hand, and I shake it, sizing him up. Rupert isn’t as tall as Stewart or Darcy, but he’s gangly, which makes him look taller. He’s very pale, like someone who spends most of his time indoors, and he has a shock of limp dark hair that hangs over his forehead. He keeps brushing it away with annoyed flicks of his hand.

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says in perfect Austen-speak. Rupert’s eyes are a pale, watery blue, and over them, like a parabola, arches a dark unibrow. Emma wasn’t exaggerating about his ears, either—they’re huge.

  So are his feet, which scuff at the gravel as he stands there awkwardly.

  “So,” says Emma finally. “Are you heading into town?”

  “My great-aunt thought that some exercise would be beneficial,” he explains, sounding so much like a character out of a book that I have to press my lips together to keep from giggling.

  “Mr. Collins lives!” I whisper to Emma as he walks away.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” she whispers back.

  We continue on, looking at each of the canal boats and wondering what it must be like to live on the river, and in another ten minutes or so we reach Emma’s village.

  “This place is like something out of a movie,” I say, spotting the row of tidy cottages that line the narrow main street.

  “I know! Isn’t it amazing? I can’t wait until Mrs. Chadwick sees the gardens. She’s going to go bonkers.”

  I shoot her a questioning look, and Emma laughs. “That means nuts,” she explains.

  We stop in front of the prettiest house of all. The front garden is framed by a waist-high hedge, and there’s a small sign that says IVY COTTAGE attached to the gate.

  “This is us,” says Emma, unlatching it.

  I drift in behind her, wondering if I’m in a dream. “I can’t believe you actually live here.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been pinching myself all year.”

  “Hi, girls!” Mrs. Hawthorne calls, spotting us through the kitchen window. “I thought you might be coming back with Emma, Jess. I picked up some orange squash on the way home.”

  Puzzled as to why she’s telling us this—does she think we’re hungry? And if so, why would we want to eat butternut squash this time of year?—I follow Emma into the kitchen. The mystery is solved when she pulls a liter-size bottle of soda out of the fridge.

  “Behold! Orange squash,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Football means soccer, squash is soda, bonkers is nuts—I’m going to need an interpreter or something.”

  “Nah,” she replies. “You’ll pick up the lingo quickly.” She pours us both a glass and crosses the kitchen. “Hey, do you want to meet Toby?”

  “Of course.”

  The Berkeleys’ parrot rocks back and forth on his perch, hopping from one foot to another in excited anticipation as Emma opens a bag of bird treats.

  “Who’s a good bird?” she asks him.

  “TOBY!” he squawks.

  “That’s right,” she replies, and hands him a treat through the bars of his cage. With a pang, I wonder what Lydia is doing right now.

  Mrs. Hawthorne checks her watch. “I’m going to take a quick nap myself,” she tells us. “Darcy should be home soon, and after he cleans up from soccer I’ll send your father back to the hotel to round up everyone else.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Emma replies. She waits until her mother leaves the room, then grins mischievously at me. “Want to see something funny?”

  “Sure.”

  She pulls open a lower drawer of the big cupboard where the dishes are displayed and riffles through the phone books and loose papers stacked inside, then plucks out a photograph from the very bottom of the pile. It’s a professional shot of someone posing in a sequined ice skating outfit—Annabelle Fairfax.

  “Watch this,” says Emma. She holds the picture up in front of Toby’s cage.

  “STINKERBELLE!” the parrot shrieks.

  I stand there in shocked silence, then collapse against the table behind me, howling with laughter. “I can’t believe you taught him to say that!”

  “I figure it will give Tristan and Simon something to talk about next time Annabelle comes over.”

  Still laughing, we sit down at the table to drink our soda, and a coupl
e of minutes later Toby makes us jump when out of the blue he shrieks, “GO RED SOX!”

  Darcy Hawthorne walks into the kitchen.

  My heart stops.

  His legs are covered in mud, his face is streaked with sweat, and his curly brown hair is matted down against his head. He looks amazing.

  “Jess!” he cries, spotting me, and my heart starts again, racing this time because he sounds genuinely thrilled to see me.

  “Hey, Darcy,” I reply shyly.

  “I’d give you a hug but I smell terrible,” he says cheerfully.

  I wouldn’t mind, I want to tell him, but of course I don’t.

  “It’s so great that you’re here!” he continues. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine.”

  “Emma’s really been looking forward to your visit,” he says.

  How about you? I want to ask him, but of course I don’t say that, either. “Me too,” I reply instead.

  “Mom says to hurry up and take a shower,” Emma tells him, holding her nose. “Dad’s going to drive over and pick everybody up and we’re going to go to dinner in a little while.”

  “Okay. Good to see you, Jess,” he says, and he tugs on my braid as he passes the table.

  I smile a little wistfully. I was probably imagining that he was thrilled to see me. I need to stop getting my hopes up, stop dreaming of something that’s never going to happen. Darcy Hawthorne still just thinks of me as his little sister’s best friend.

  A while later, Mr. Hawthorne brings the rest of the book club over, and we spend a fun couple of hours checking out Ivy Cottage and exploring the village. Emma’s right, Mrs. Chadwick does go bonkers when she sees all the gardens, and embarrasses Becca by making her pose for a picture in front of every single one of them. We get to meet Lucy Woodhouse really briefly—she’s just as cute and nice as Emma said she was—and then afterward, we walk to the George Inn for dinner, heading back down the canal path the way Emma and I came this afternoon. I notice Stewart is still keeping his distance. He’s walking ahead of us with Darcy and Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Kinkaid.

  “Where’s Rupert Loomis when you need him?” I ask Emma. “There’s no way Stewart can stay mad at you after he meets him.”

  “I sure hope not,” she replies glumly.

  My mother comes over and links her arm through mine. Her eyes are sparkling, and she looks relaxed and happy. She works really hard on our farm, and doesn’t get to take vacations very often. Especially ones that involve nice hotel rooms instead of tents filled with Cub Scouts.

  “Having fun, sweetheart?”

  I nod enthusiastically.

  “This is amazing, isn’t it? I feel like I’m on the set of a Jane Austen movie.”

  “I know just what you mean, Shannon,” Mrs. Wong chimes in. “I expect to see Elizabeth and Darcy come walking around the corner any minute.”

  How about Jess and Darcy? I think to myself. I’d settle for that.

  The sun is low in the sky now, and its slanting rays light up the green meadows and give the stone houses we pass a warm golden glow. Mrs. Hawthorne explains that they’re made of a special honey-colored limestone that’s found only in this part of England.

  “Wait until we take you into Bath tomorrow,” she adds. “The whole city is made of the same stone, and it’s absolutely stunning.”

  The George Inn is right on the canal, a low building with half a dozen chimneys sticking out the roof. It’s half-buried in ivy, and looks like something from The Hobbit.

  “It’s been around since the twelfth century,” Mr. Hawthorne tells us, holding open the door. “It was originally a monastery.”

  Inside, there are bunch of connected rooms, with whitewashed walls and dark exposed beams across the low ceilings just like at Ivy Cottage. Stewart and Darcy and Cassidy and her mother all have to duck their heads in some spots. We pass fireplaces and tables tucked into the building’s nooks and crannies as our waiter leads us to the private room that Mrs. Hawthorne has reserved for us. We place our order, and Emma and I both get fish and chips. So does Darcy.

  “Careful, they’re addictive,” he says, smiling at me.

  For once, Becca is stuck down at the other end of the table, next to Mr. Kinkaid. Even though she’s technically interested in Zach Norton these days, with Becca, you never know. And with Zach of sight, he might be out of mind, too.

  Emma and her brother and I talk and laugh all through dinner. Darcy is really interested to hear about Lydia, and he agrees with Emma that I should definitely work toward getting my wildlife rehabilitator’s license.

  “Eighteen seems like a long time from now,” I tell them.

  “It’s going to fly by, you watch,” Darcy replies. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a senior next year. I’m going to have to start thinking about college.” He throws a French fry—excuse me, a “chip”—at Cassidy, who catches it neatly. “Hey, Sloane, heard anything from your sister lately? How’s she liking UCLA?”

  I stare down at my dinner. Cassidy’s sister Courtney is really, really pretty. I mean model pretty. She looks just like Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. A person could hardly blame Darcy for liking her.

  “I went out to visit her a couple of weeks ago,” Cassidy tells him. “We had a blast. UCLA is huge, but it’s pretty cool. I got to meet her boyfriend, too.”

  I perk up at this. I didn’t know Courtney had a boyfriend.

  Darcy turns back to Emma and me. “I think I probably want to go someplace a little closer to home,” he tells us. “Dartmouth, maybe, if my grades are good enough.”

  I smile. My aunt and uncle live near there, in New Hampshire. And Darcy’s grades are definitely good enough from what Emma tells me. Plus, he’s a star athlete. He’ll probably get all sorts of scholarships.

  Dessert arrives—a large cake with “Welcome, Mother-Daughter Book Club!” written on it in wobbly script. I guess they’re not much into cake decorating at the George. As the waiter slices it for us, Mrs. Hawthorne taps her knife against her glass.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” she announces. “To Eva Bergson!”

  “Hear, hear!” replies my mother, lifting her glass. We all lift ours, too.

  “To a wonderful friend and fairy godmother—many thanks for bringing us all together here for what I know will be a magical week in England!” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “To Eva!” says Gigi, and we all echo her words.

  Later, outside the pub, Mrs. Hawthorne roots around in her purse. “It stays light late over here in the summer,” she says, “but the canal path is a bit uneven so I brought torches.”

  I watch her, curious to see if flames suddenly shoot out of her purse. But it turns out that torches are just what they call flashlights in England. Great. Another vocabulary word to add to the list.

  “I don’t have enough for everyone,” she adds, passing them out. “You’ll have to share.”

  We split up into groups of twos and threes. Emma winks at me and drifts over to where Cassidy and Megan are standing. Mrs. Chadwick, who is complaining loudly about how tired her feet are, and how she’s not sure she can make it back to the mini-coach, has Stewart firmly by one arm and Becca by the other. The rest of our parents and Gigi are happily chatting together.

  Darcy materializes, holding up a flashlight. “Want to walk with me?”

  I nod, smiling.

  “It’s pretty amazing here, isn’t it?” he says as we walk along.

  I nod again. “It’s like time stood still or something.”

  “I know. There are places at home in Concord that feel that way to me—the Old North Bridge sometimes, and Kyle Anderson’s house, with that bullet hole from the Revolutionary War—but here it’s just about everywhere. You don’t even have to half-close your eyes to imagine the past.”

  “You do that too?” I ask, surprised. I thought I was the only one who used that trick.

  “Sure. I love history. I’m thinking I might major in it at college.”

  We talk for a whil
e about what we might want to be when we grow up. I always figured Darcy would want to do something with sports, since he’s such a jock, but he tells me he thinks he’d like to be a professor.

  “I was talking to Tristan and Simon’s father over spring break, and he’s a really cool guy. He loves his job and says I should think seriously about a career in academics.” He kicks a stone into the canal, and it lands with a plunk. “How about you, Jess? What do you want to be?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. As I think it over, I realize that ever since taking care of Lydia, though, I’ve stopped worrying about it.

  We walk along in silence for a while. A few faint pinpricks of light twinkle against the inky blue darkness of the sky, reflecting in the calm water of the canal. Darcy starts whistling. I recognize the tune right away. It’s the same one my mother and I sang in our back pasture that night last fall, during the Leonid meteor shower: “When You Wish Upon a Star.” I hum along under my breath, looking up at the sky. When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are . . .

  I haven’t felt this happy in a long, long time.

  “I’m really glad you came,” says Darcy suddenly.

  “Me too,” I tell him.

  And as we round the bend toward Ivy Cottage, he tugs my braid just the way he always has ever since I was six, and then he reaches down and takes my hand.

  Maybe sometimes dreams really do come true.

  CASSIDY

  “To be fond of dancing was a certain

  step toward falling in love.”

  —Pride and Prejudice

  The sun wakes me up.

  I glance over at the trio of beds lined up beside me. Megan and Becca and Jess are still asleep. I yawn and glance at my watch, then at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s the middle of the night back in Concord, but it’s nearly seven over here.