“I really do,” I reply solemnly.
It’s true. I’ve been watching Lucy all year, and I’m convinced of it. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but I’m pretty sure she does. Lucy is a bright girl, so I figure there must be some hidden gold in Rupert’s character that nobody else sees.
The dance finishes, and I leave a very thoughtful Rupert on the dance floor to return to Stewart.
We sit the next one out with my mother. “Looks like your mom has finally called a truce, Stewart,” she says, pointing to the dance floor, where Mrs. Chadwick is stepping her way through a quadrille with my father.
Stewart grins. “About time,” he says. “Dad says that we Chadwicks have a tendency to hold on to grudges long past their expiration date.” He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. My mother smiles and looks discreetly away.
“I’m going to go inside for a minute,” I tell them, and excuse myself.
It’s quiet and cool inside the stone house, and I wander the empty halls, looking for the tour guide. Figuring the group must have gone upstairs, I creak my way to the top, then along a long corridor that I recognize as the gallery. My mother has been here before, to use the research library, and she says that in the olden days when the weather was poor, the ladies of the house would walk up and down this corridor for exercise.
It’s a little creepy up here, especially with all the portraits watching me. I hear footsteps ahead, and quicken my pace. It must be the tour. But when I turn the corner, no one is there.
The hair on the back of my neck begins to prickle. Where is everybody?
“Hello?” I call.
There’s no reply. Then I hear footsteps again, only this time in the opposite direction. I turn around and break into a jog. My arms are covered in goose bumps by now. I don’t believe in ghosts, but if ever there was a place for one, Chawton House is it. All this dark wood paneling and creaky floorboards! I can’t wait to get home to Concord and our little house with its cheerful pink kitchen.
My imagination is working overtime by now. Jane Austen used to visit her brother and his family here all the time. What if her ghost is wandering about? I turn the corner again and see a flash of silk as someone—or something—whisks through an open doorway.
Slowly, reluctantly, I draw closer to the doorway. The room beyond is dimly lit, and the someone—or something—is sitting in an armchair in shadows. Could it be Jane herself?
But no, it’s just Rupert’s great-aunt Olivia.
“Ah, Emma Hawthorne,” she says. “Just the girl I wish to see. Do come in.”
She cocks her head and studies me as I obey. “She loved this room, you know,” she tells me.
“Who?”
“Why, Jane Austen, of course. They call it the Oak Room now, but it used to be the Ladies’ Withdrawing Room. It’s my favorite room in the house. Jane and her female relatives and friends would gather here in the afternoons and after dinner, to read and talk and do their needlework.” She points to an alcove in the far wall, where there’s another armchair. “They say she sat right there and worked on her stories,” she tells me, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But I suspect that is merely a bit of fanciful embroidery for the tourists.”
She smiles, and I give her a hesitant smile in return.
“I quite think you captured her spirit,” she says.
“Whose?” I reply, mystified.
“Miss Annabelle Fairfax’s. She’s Stinkerbelle, correct? My grand-nephew told me all about your run-ins with her this year. She’s a spoiled brat and always has been. Her parents have never been able to say no to her.”
I’m not quite sure what to say to this. An answer doesn’t seem to be required, however.
“Rupert brought home the school magazine and showed me your story,” she continues. “It was very naughty of you to lampoon her in print, but it was also very, very funny. No one but those who know her and her antics will recognize her in the stories, of course, and she will hardly want to draw attention to herself by claiming to be Stinkerbelle in the flesh. So she’ll have no choice but to stew in her own juice. Well done, my dear, well done.”
She steeples her fingers and regards me thoughtfully. “I realize that my grand-nephew’s attentions to you over these past months haven’t been all that welcome, but I do appreciate your patience with him,” she continues. “He’s a bit of an odd duck, but he’s a good boy. I’ve been thinking things over and it occurs to me that perhaps living with an old lady like myself isn’t the best situation for him. So I’m sending him off to boarding school this fall. I’m sure it will do him a world of good. And as for your story, I’ve been thinking about that, too. You know that I used to own a publishing company?”
I nod.
“I’m retired now, but I still have some say in their operations. I’ve sent your story to a former colleague of mine there. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a picture book in it. Your friend Lucy’s illustrations are quite clever as well.”
I must look shocked, because she laughs. “I can’t promise you anything, you understand, but no matter, you have a bright future ahead. I think Miss Austen would have approved of you.”
And she leaves the room in a rustle of silk.
I might get a book published? She thinks Jane Austen would have approved of me? I need to sit down. Crossing the room to the alcove, I take a seat by the open window. Below, a breeze plays along the top of the white tent, aglow from the candlelight within. I prop my elbow on the windowsill and rest my chin in my hand, listening to the laughter of the dancers mingling with the strains of the string quartet.
I might get a book published.
All of a sudden I feel a rush of longing for Mrs. Bergson. I wish she were here! I wish I could tell her about all this. I know she’d want to hear every detail, and I know she’d be thrilled for me.
And I know she’d love England, too. I’m really going to miss living here. I’m eager to get back home to my life in Concord—especially now that Stewart and I have smoothed things over—but I’ve loved living here, too, and I hope I get to come back someday.
I remember a talk Jess and I had once, back in sixth grade, about whether we wanted to know the endings of books or movies ahead of time. Back then, I didn’t. I never wanted to have the endings spoiled for me. I always wanted to wait and find out myself.
And now?
I look down at my mother and father, who are standing in the garden talking with Mrs. Wong and Gigi. My mother is holding Chloe, who’s fallen asleep on her shoulder. Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Chadwick and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid and Stanley are all lined up out on the dance floor, laughing as they fumble their way through the unfamiliar steps. Megan is laughing too—at something Simon Berkeley just said to her. Jess, who is looking prettier than I’ve ever seen her before, is heading for the refreshment table hand in hand with my brother.
Cassidy is racing across the grass with Tristan Berkeley, her red sneakers flashing from beneath her long lavender dress. Has she found her Mr. Darcy? She’s certainly changed her first impression of him, just like Elizabeth Bennet. Cassidy swears she’s not interested in Tristan, but I think maybe there’s a spark there. Of course, there’s a spark with Sam Parker, too, and maybe, just maybe, a teeny little one with Zach Norton as well.
Thinking of Zach reminds me of Becca. I’d been feeling a little sorry for her tonight, since she’s the only one of us who’s here without a partner, but I spot her out on the dance floor with not one but two boys vying for her attention. I guess I don’t ever need to worry about Becca Chadwick.
What if I could look ahead, and see how all our stories end? I know all of this might not last forever—we’re only in high school, after all, and no doubt there are more sparks of romance to come and more stories still to be written for each of us. Would I want to read them?
I’m not sure. For now, I think it’s enough to see everyone enjoying themselves right now, right here, on this beautiful evening.
And w
ould I want to know the ending to my own story?
No.
I want the adventure that comes along with finding out.
A feeling of deep contentment stirs in me as I look out at the party below. The music swells, and it seems to me it carries with it all the happiness that’s singing in the hearts of my family and friends.
Only Annabelle Fairfax looks glum. I would too, if I was stuck on a bench under a tree with Rupert Loomis. I can practically hear his Eeyore drone from here. I grin to myself.
“There you are,” says Stewart. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. There’s no point dragging Rupert in between the two of us ever again.
My very own Mr. Darcy holds out a gloved hand. “Come on, then. Let’s go join the dance.”
And we do.
“Now let us be quite comfortable and snug,
and talk and laugh all the way home.”
—Pride and Prejudice
Mother-Daughter Book Club Questions
After reading all four Mother-Daughter Book Club books, do you have a favorite character? Who are you most like?
What did you know about Jane Austen before you read Pies & Prejudice? Are you interested in reading her books?
Have you ever lived outside of the United States? Where would you want to live?
With Emma moving away, the book club is worried that they won’t be as close. Have you ever had a friend move away? How did you stay in touch?
Emma has some trouble with one of the girls at her new school. Have you ever felt bullied? How did you handle it?
While Emma and her family are in England, Simon and Tristan’s family move into the Hawthorne’s house in Concord. How would you feel if your family swapped houses with someone else?
Jess tries out for a solo and doesn’t get it. Have you ever tried out for something you really wanted? Did you make it?
Megan starts a fashion blog. Do you have a blog? Have you ever thought about starting a blog? What would it be about?
Megan stays anonymous when writing her blog Fashionista Jane, and Jane Austen published her novels anonymously. Why do you think Megan made this decision? Do you agree or disagree with it? How do you think Megan’s decision to write anonymously is different from what Jane did? Have you ever done something anonymously? If so, why?
Jess rescues a wild fox. Have you ever seen an injured wild animal? Did you do anything to help it? Once the fox heals, Jess has a hard time letting her go. Have you ever had to say goodbye to someone or something that you didn’t want to?
The girls decide to start a pie-making business. Do you like to bake? What is the best thing you make?
Moody Tristan is a modern-day Mr. Darcy. Is there anyone in your life who resembles a character from literature?
Mrs. Chadwick believes something in Mr. Hawthorne’s book is about her and gets offended. Have you ever upset someone unintentionally? Is there anyone that you think would make a great character in a book?
Pies & Prejudice is a pun on the Jane Austen title Pride and Prejudice. Are there any businesses in your town that use puns? Can you think of other clever business names using any of Jane Austen’s other books?
The book club visits the town where Jane Austen lived and sees the church where her father preached. Is there any famous person, alive or dead, whose hometown you would like to visit? Why?
Cassidy deals with a very sad loss after Mrs. Bergson dies, but her memorial service is a celebration of her life. Has anyone close to you passed away? How did you get through it?
Mrs. Bergson leaves some generous gifts to Concord and the Mother-Daughter Book Club. If you could give any present to anyone you wanted, what would it be? Why?
Are there any other books you wish the Mother-Daughter Book Club would read?
Author’s Note
And so we come at last to Jane.
I’ve known from the beginning that my fictional book club would eventually be ready to tackle Pride and Prejudice. It was a day I awaited eagerly, but also with some trepidation, for Jane Austen is an author I’ve admired since I first encountered her books in my teens, and I desperately wanted to do her justice. I hope that I have done so, but that is for my readers to decide.
One of the great delights in researching this book was the opportunity I had to travel to England and walk in Jane’s footsteps, from her birthplace in pastoral Steventon to the stunningly lovely city of Bath and her home in Chawton. Standing by the modest table there where she wrote half a dozen of the greatest novels in the English language was both memorable and humbling, to say the least.
Many of the locations mentioned in this story really exist, including Ivy Cottage. You won’t find it on the outskirts of Bath, however. Its real name is Thatched Roofs, and it sits smack-dab in the middle of Newtown Linford, a tiny village in Leicestershire. My family and I lived there the year I turned twelve, and I have such happy memories of that beautiful cottage that I couldn’t resist letting the Hawthornes live there too, so I whisked it a hundred miles to the south for the purposes of my story.
Another place that actually exists is the hotel where the book club stays when they visit Bath. The bedrooms at Tasburgh House really are named for famous authors, and I knew the minute I set foot in the door that it was the perfect spot for my fictional bibliophiles (it was the perfect spot for me, too). It’s only a short distance along the canal from there to The George, the lovely old pub mentioned in the story, and to walk from one to the other on a fine evening as the book club and their families do is sheer heaven. I know—I’ve done it.
Once again, I am indebted to so many people for their help in bringing this book into existence. I couldn’t have found livelier travel companions than Lynda Hathaway Sleight and Ali Buxton Miller, who gamely allowed me to drag them all over the British countryside in the name of research, nor could I have been given a warmer welcome in London than the one I received from Patti White and her wonderful family.
Patti and her daughter Frances were enormously helpful in sorting out British school customs and slang, as was Sue Kinsey—I couldn’t have muddled through on my own, and I thank you. I’d also like to thank Edith Sisson for generously sharing her expertise in wildlife rehabilitation, Lisa Hoberg for vetting the ice dancing scenes, and the Quigley family for once again providing hockey help (go, Lucinda!). As always, any factual errors that remain are entirely my own doing.
Above all, heartfelt thanks to my own resident Mr. Darcy for love and encouragement, especially on those days when I act less like the charming Elizabeth Bennet and more like her flibbertigibbet of a mother!
Pies & Prejudice Page 29